Unholy Murder

by Lynda La Plante

  She didn’t reply. Jane feared the Met’s senior officers would view his remarks as an unnecessary attack on the Catholic Church, and unbecoming to an officer of his rank. She wondered if Barnes was unburdening himself and didn’t care he was putting his career on the line.

  ‘Do you think children at the Sisters of Mercy convent were abused?’ the journalist asked.

  Becky looked at Boon, who whispered to Jane.

  ‘I hope Stanley told him about Mrs Gorman . . .’

  ‘We have no direct evidence of that at this time,’ Barnes said. ‘But it is something we are looking into as part of our investigation.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ Boon sighed as Barnes continued.

  ‘I would encourage anyone who was abused in any way whilst at the convent to contact us. We will treat your information as confidential and support you. Unless there are any further questions, I think we can conclude this press conference.’

  As members of the press left the room, the journalist in the pinstripe suit approached Barnes.

  ‘Thanks for answering my question about the cover-up. I intend to write an exposé about child abuse by priests and nuns. It has gone on for too long now and something needs to be done about the archaic laws the Catholic Church uses to deal with those who abuse children.’ He handed Barnes his business card. ‘You can rest assured I never reveal my sources.’

  Barnes put the card in his breast pocket. ‘Thanks. I’ll keep you informed of any developments,’ he said, and they shook hands.

  Becky had a quick chat with Boon and thanked him for letting her attend.

  ‘I was wondering if you still fancied going out for a drink?’ she asked.

  ‘I think I’m going to be busy with work for a while,’ he replied, remembering what he’d said to Jane about mixing business with pleasure.

  Becky pulled a sad face. ‘Pretty please. I promise, I won’t ask a single question about the investigation.’

  ‘Go on, then. Tomorrow night will probably be best for me work-wise. I’ll give you a ring. What’s your home number?’ he asked, handing Becky his notebook.

  *

  Once the press had left, Barnes spoke to the detectives and civilian staff. He told them the office meeting would start in half an hour, but first he wanted to speak with Stanley, Jane, Boon and Lloyd Johnson in his office.

  As Barnes opened the bottom drawer of his office filing cabinet, they heard the chink of glasses. He removed a bottle of Glenmorangie malt whisky and five glasses, which he lined up on his desk.

  ‘I keep this for special occasions,’ he said as he pulled the cork stopper out. ‘I thought the press conference went well, didn’t you?’ He poured some whisky into the glasses.

  They looked at each other, wondering who was going to reply first. Lloyd elbowed Stanley, forcing him to respond.

  ‘Yes, sir. You spoke very well. Stephen Phillips’ death and the Church’s cover-up certainly got the press’s attention. It will no doubt cause a bit of a stir in the diocesan offices.’

  ‘Good. It was my intention to put the cat amongst the pigeons. Help yourselves.’

  Once everyone had picked up a glass, he said, ‘Cheers. Here’s to putting Bishop Meade and his co-conspirators behind bars.’

  Everyone raised their glasses and said ‘Cheers’. Barnes downed his whisky in one, poured another and lit one of his Black Russian cigarettes, then looked at Boon.

  ‘Good work with Annette Gorman today, son. I thought it best not to mention her in the conference. Her statement will be another nail in Meade’s coffin. Stanley also told me you’ve traced a Sister Julie who lived at the convent.’

  ‘Julie Dorton. She’s no longer a nun. She lives in Sidcup,’ Boon replied.

  ‘I’d be interested to know why she left,’ Barnes said.

  ‘Annette Gorman gave me the impression she’d had enough of the way the Mother Superior and some of the other nuns treated the children,’ Boon told him.

  ‘Abusing kids seems to be a way of life in the Catholic Church,’ Stanley remarked.

  ‘There may be other reasons she left. I want Boon and Tennison to interview her this evening after the office meeting,’ Barnes said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they replied in unison.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, DS Jackson. I know you’re busy dealing with the forensics on a number of murder investigations, so I won’t keep you long. Can you bring us up to speed with what you have so far?’ Barnes asked.

  Lloyd looked at Jane. ‘Your hunch about the nun’s cincture matching the fibres around her neck was spot on.’

  ‘What’s a cincture?’ Boon asked.

  ‘It’s the brown, rope-like cord the dead nun was wearing round her waist,’ Lloyd told him.

  Boon looked at Jane with a bemused expression. ‘You think she was strangled with her own rope, then someone took the time and effort to tie it neatly around her waist?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, ‘though I suppose it’s not an impossibility. Nuns of the same order have the same cinctures.’

  Boon twigged. ‘Ah, I get it. A nun using her own rope to strangle our victim, thus the matching fibres.’

  ‘Hemp fibres to be precise,’ Lloyd said.

  ‘What, as in cannabis?’ Boon asked.

  ‘Hemp is a variety of the same plant, used to make rope,’ Lloyd replied.

  ‘Would you two shut up and let Tennison finish?’ Barnes said.

  Jane continued. ‘I saw a priest at the diocesan offices wearing a cincture like our victim’s.’

  Barnes sat up. ‘Which means the fibres on the nun’s neck could be from Meade’s cincture.’

  Lloyd shook his head. ‘The problem is that forensics can never match an individual rope to the hemp fibres on the nun’s neck. All they can tell you is that there’s a high probability a hemp rope was used to strangle her.’

  ‘That’s not much bloody use to us. Have you got any good news, Lloyd?’ Barnes said curtly.

  ‘We examined the broken knife tip under a high-powered microscope. There was a minuscule sliver of wood on it. Two further slivers were found on the hole in her clothing where she was stabbed in the neck. A forestry expert concluded from the cellular structure they were all birch tree fragments. This suggests the knife had recently been used for cutting wood.’

  Barnes sighed. ‘The chances of us finding the knife now are virtually nil. Is that it, Lloyd?’

  ‘We’re still examining the stomach contents. It’s amazing how the food inside her has dried and solidified. Looks like her last meal was a vegetable stew with broccoli, cauliflower and seeded bread.’

  Barnes was losing interest. ‘Are you likely to find anything forensically we can use as direct evidence against Meade?’

  ‘From what the scientists tell me, it’s unlikely,’ Lloyd admitted.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ Barnes said. ‘How’d you get on at the diocesan archives, Tennison?’

  ‘Parkin, the archivist, confirmed there were no documents relating to the nuns or children at the convent. Meade lied; she didn’t tell him about the fire because it was the other way round. I’ve got a copy of a letter from the diocesan solicitors to the developers. All it says is the fire occurred in August 1962 and the buildings were damaged beyond repair. It raises the question of how Meade knew the fire started in the bakery and destroyed all the convent documents.’

  ‘Are you thinking Meade committed arson to destroy the records?’ Stanley asked.

  Jane nodded. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but it might be worth getting a fire investigator from the lab to have a look at what’s left of the buildings.’

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ Barnes said.

  ‘I’ll get it sorted for tomorrow morning,’ Lloyd said.

  ‘Anything else of interest, Tennison?’ Barnes asked.

  ‘The list of priests who worked at St Mary’s has also mysteriously gone missing.’ Jane was glad she didn’t have to reveal she got the information from a priest.

  ‘Th
at’s another coincidence with Meade’s name written all over it,’ Boon remarked.

  ‘The man is digging his own grave,’ Stanley added.

  Barnes lit another cigarette. ‘I agree . . . but it’s not deep enough yet. I’ve no doubt he’s involved in the nun’s murder, but without a confession we don’t have enough to charge him. If he murdered the nun, he must have got someone to help him move and bury the coffin. If we can find that person and get them to roll over, we’ve got a good chance of convicting Meade.’ He turned to Jane. ‘Any other revelations from the archives?’

  ‘I obtained a couple of documents confirming the buildings and land were deconsecrated in 1964.’

  ‘Good, that’s put that issue to bed and should please the developers.’

  Jane wondered if she should tell him Thomas Durham and Lee Holland had been acting strangely and might be hiding something that could be connected to the murder, but she decided to hold back until she had some hard evidence.

  ‘Anything else?’ Barnes asked.

  ‘Unfortunately, no, as I was escorted off the premises.’

  They all looked at Jane, wondering what she’d done.

  ‘By Meade?’ Barnes asked, taking a sip of his whisky.

  ‘No, he was in Cambridge. But he’d heard about the News Shopper article and phoned the priest who’s his personal assistant. He must have told him I was in the archives. The priest told me Meade said I had deceived the Church and Archbishop Malone was returning from Rome, so—’

  Barnes nearly choked on his whisky. ‘Did you say Malone?’

  ‘Yes. Andrew Malone is the archbishop of Southwark.’

  Barnes wiped the whisky from his chin. ‘Andrew Malone was the name of the priest who took pleasure in beating Stephen black and blue. If it’s him, he will do everything he can to protect Meade and the Church. When’s he due back in London?’

  ‘I think he’s flying back tomorrow sometime,’ Jane informed him.

  Barnes shook his head. ‘We need to act quickly. I want Meade arrested before Malone can get to him.’

  Stanley worried Barnes was being impetuous. ‘I don’t want to appear rude, sir, but I suspect Malone has already spoken to Meade. No doubt he will have told him to say nothing until he gets back from Rome. It might be to our advantage to interview Dorton and evaluate the calls we get from the public after the six o’clock news first.’

  Barnes frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Like you just said, we haven’t got enough to charge Meade. Arresting him now could be futile. If he made a no-comment interview, we’d have to release him. Julie Dorton may be able to identify Meade as the local priest and confirm he knew our victim. There’s also a chance someone watching the news might call us with more damning evidence. Waiting until the morning to arrest him might be a better option. I can also check what time the first flight from Rome arrives.’

  Barnes rubbed his chin and thought about it. ‘Tennison, you and Boon skip the office meeting. Go and see Julie Dorton. Show her Eaves’ drawings. Then come straight back here. This could be a long night,’ he said. He downed his whisky, then poured another. ‘And get someone to check out the local dentists for nuns who had a fucking toothache!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  While Boon phoned Julie Dorton from Barnes’s office, Jane went to the incident room to get her bag and coat. A few detectives were setting up their desks and others were looking at the photographs and maps on the walls. She overheard one on the phone to his wife, telling her he probably wouldn’t be home until late. She picked up the phone on an empty desk in the corner of the room and rang Nick’s office.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. How did it go with your dad?’

  ‘He’ll survive,’ he said.

  ‘Look, I don’t think I’ll be able to see you tonight. I’ve got to interview someone and I don’t know how long it’s going to take. My DCI wants me to report back to the incident room afterwards. I’ve a suspicion he’ll want us all in early morning as well. I don’t want to disturb you, so I’ll stay the night at mine tonight if that’s—’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Do what’s best for you,’ Nick replied.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Jane asked, bemused by his off-hand tone.

  ‘Yeah, shouldn’t I be?’

  Jane couldn’t understand why he was talking to her like this. ‘Have I done something to upset you?’

  There was a brief pause. ‘No, it’s not you. My dad can be pretty exhausting at times.’

  ‘I understand. Look, it might be late, but I’ll come round to your house when I finish. We can cheer each other up,’ she said.

  ‘If it’s all the same, I’d like to stay at my dad’s tonight and keep an eye on him.’

  Jane was taken aback. ‘Right, fine . . . I understand.’ She didn’t see Boon approaching.

  ‘Mrs Dorton’s happy to speak with us. You good to go, sarge?’ he asked.

  She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Can’t you see I’m on the phone?’ she said tersely. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’ She waited for a reply then realised Nick had already put the phone down.

  Driving to Julie Dorton’s, Jane couldn’t help but feel concerned about her brief conversation with Nick. She knew he was close to his father, but his curt replies were out of character. She racked her brain but couldn’t think of anything she’d done that could have upset him. She wondered if the whole business of the nun’s murder, the site being closed and his father’s illness was getting to him more than he was letting on.

  ‘You all right, sarge?’ Boon asked, but she didn’t answer. ‘Hello, Boon to DS Tennison, are you receiving . . . over?’ he joked.

  She bit back a sharp reply. ‘Sorry, I was thinking about what we need to ask Julie Dorton.’

  ‘I was surprised Barnes never had a pop at me about Becky Rogers being at the press conference,’ Boon remarked.

  ‘I think his mind was on more important things. Personally, I was quite impressed with her. She’s dogged and she certainly speaks her mind.’

  ‘Not dissimilar to you then, sarge,’ Boon grinned.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Jane said.

  ‘Dorton’s house should be just up here on the left,’ Boon said as they drove along Hurst Road.

  *

  Julie Dorton was an attractive, fresh-faced woman in her late forties, with dark curly auburn hair and bright eyes. She was wearing a dark blue hospital dress and a nurse’s belt around her slim waist. Jane noticed she also wore wedding and engagement rings.

  ‘I’ve not long been back from work. Please come through to the living room,’ she said nervously.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Dorton?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I just watched the evening news. I think I know who the nun is, but . . . it just doesn’t seem possible she was murdered.’ Her voice trembled. ‘The artist’s impression they showed looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure it was her. Then when they showed a picture of the cross with the initials on it . . .’ Julie started to cry.

  Jane and Boon looked at each other, realising this was a significant development. Boon got out his notebook and pen, having agreed that Jane would interview Julie and he would take notes to be made into a full statement later. Jane sat next to Julie on the settee.

  ‘Who do you think MB is, Julie?’ Jane asked, handing her a tissue.

  ‘Sister Melissa . . . but we all called her Missy.’

  ‘Do you know her surname?’

  ‘It was Bailey.’

  ‘And you were at the convent together?’ Jane asked.

  Julie blew her nose and nodded. ‘She was my best friend.’

  ‘I know this must be difficult for you, Julie, but I need to ask you some questions about Missy . . . is that OK?’

  ‘Yes. I want to help . . . but I can’t believe she was murdered . . . I thought Missy left the convent because she’d had enough of the way it was run. Do you really think it’s her body you found?’

  ‘We don’t know
for certain yet. But with what you’ve just told us, it’s an even stronger possibility. When did you first meet Missy? If you can recall any dates, it would be very helpful.’

  ‘We joined the convent as novices in February 1953 and shared a room together. I was nineteen and Missy was eighteen. We felt segregated from some of the older sisters, who stuck to a strict religious routine and rarely spoke to us younger novices. Missy and I got on well and quickly became close friends.’ Julie undid the top button of her dress and withdrew a cross on a chain. She took it off and handed it to Jane.

  ‘We were given these when we took our final vows. Mine is the same as Missy’s, apart from the initials, of course.’

  ‘Can you recall if there was anyone else at the convent with the initials MB?’ Jane asked.

  ‘There were a couple of sisters called Mary. I think one’s surname was Brown; the other one I can’t remember. Mind you, they were both a lot older and probably took their vows in the 1940s.’

  ‘Do you know what part of the country Missy was from?’

  ‘She told me her parents emigrated to Canada just after the war. She came back to the UK to become a nun when she turned eighteen.’

  ‘Do you know where they lived in Canada?

  ‘Whenever we said how cold it was in winter, Missy would laugh and say, “Try living in Kingston, Ontario. It’s so cold you poop snowflakes.”’ Julie smiled at the memory.

  ‘Did she talk about her parents by name? What they did for a living or anything like that?’ Jane asked, knowing she would need to trace them.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know their names. I recall her saying something about her dad being a university teacher.’

  ‘Do you know when Missy’s birthday was?’ Jane asked.

  ‘The fifth of August. I remember making a cake for her twenty-seventh birthday . . . just before she left.’

  ‘Can you give me a bit more detail on why you think Missy left the convent?’

  ‘She couldn’t stand how the children were treated by Mother Superior and Sister Margaret. At the time I thought it had been eating away at her so much she just decided to walk out the door one night and never return.’