Eleven Days

by Stav Sherez

  ‘You have a suspect, I’m told, confessed to the crime. That’s splendid news.’

  Carrigan tried to read the super’s expression but Branch was already flicking through the files on his desk. Suspect? He had no idea what Branch was talking about.

  ‘DS Miller’s been trying to contact you.’

  ‘I was at the morgue and I had to give a deposition in court, you know that.’

  ‘Well then, I’ve made your day.’ Branch looked up and smiled. ‘The ACC is on his way here, so it would be good if you had this suspect all packed up and ready. Quinn wants a press conference tonight to announce it. He’s seen the papers and he’s not happy.’

  ‘The papers?’

  Branch shook his head despairingly and flung a copy of the Standard across the table. The front page had a colour photo of the flame-wrapped convent under the headline Who Is the Eleventh Victim? George Khan’s byline appeared just beneath it. Carrigan scanned the first two paragraphs. ‘Christ.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Branch murmured. ‘In my experience, Carrigan, when people start talking to the press it’s often because the investigation is losing focus and the rank and file are questioning their superior’s handling of the case.’

  It took Carrigan a moment to realise what Branch was saying. ‘It could have come from any of a number of sources, could be the pathologist’s assistants, one of the firemen, could be anyone.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re so quick to dismiss it,’ Branch replied. ‘With Quinn looking over your shoulder, let’s hope for both our sakes it is.’

  Carrigan waited a beat. ‘We have some new information regarding the nuns.’

  Carrigan told him what the pathologist had found, the marks on the shinbones of the five nuns, knowing it was the last thing Branch wanted to hear.

  ‘Quinn’s not going to like that one bit. Forty years ago? I don’t think it’s wise to mention that particular bit of information when you see him.’ Branch let out a dry, bitter laugh. ‘Jesus, why the fuck did he have to choose you for this? You have no idea what you’ve got yourself into, Carrigan. You really don’t want to fuck with Quinn. There’s stories . . . I’m not going to tell you what they are . . . but believe me, there’s stories that’ll make your hair curl.’ Branch paused and shook his head. ‘This would almost be funny if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m your superior and I’ll get blamed for your fuck-ups. Christ, not only does Quinn live up the road, he’s also the head of the bloody Catholic Police Association.’ Branch stopped suddenly, his eyes squinting. ‘Anyway, to get back to the point – take the suspect, I don’t care how strong you think the case is, process him so that Quinn can have his press conference and leave us the fuck alone.’ Branch pulled out a mobile from his jacket, signalling the end of the conversation. As Carrigan was leaving, the super looked up one last time and said, ‘Under the fucking microscope, Carrigan, remember . . . under the fucking microscope.’

  He marched into the incident room, the door slamming shut behind him, everyone in the room raising their heads.

  ‘Why the fuck wasn’t I told we have a suspect?’

  No one said a word, gazes dropping to notebooks and knees.

  ‘I tried calling you, sir . . . several times,’ Geneva explained.

  Carrigan took the phone out of his pocket and realised he’d forgotten to turn it back on after leaving court. ‘Shit,’ he muttered under his breath. He looked back up at the team. ‘So, do I have to wait till Christmas or is someone going to tell me who this bloody suspect is?’

  ‘We picked up the caretaker, Alan Hubbard,’ Geneva replied. ‘He said he’d killed the nuns. We interviewed him and concluded that he’s not a viable suspect.’

  ‘And what made you conclude that, DS Miller?’

  Geneva swallowed rapidly, looking down at her notes. ‘He thinks he killed the nuns because he never got round to fixing the boiler.’

  For a brief moment the mood in the incident room lifted, some of the younger constables laughing and swapping incredulous looks among themselves.

  ‘We’re holding him downstairs as a witness for now. Jennings checked his whereabouts on the night of the fourteenth and it looks like he’s clear.’

  Carrigan didn’t know if this was good news or bad. He stood up and wiped the whiteboard behind him. He pinned up the photos he’d taken in the chapel. The scratched door. The pricket stand. The statue of the saint. ‘This isn’t our usual case: we have eleven bodies, not one, a crime scene that’s almost useless and a public relations nightmare if we don’t find out who did this.’ He turned around, saw the gravity of the situation sinking in and continued, ‘I want updates from you as soon as you have something, even if you think it’s nothing. I don’t want to get sandbagged by Branch like that again.’

  Geneva pulled out her notes and told him about Hubbard’s description of the new girl. She felt a small measure of satisfaction when she saw his expression.

  ‘Okay, we need to find out what we can about this woman. Jennings, I want you to take some uniforms and re-canvass the area. Do we have a description?’

  Geneva shrugged. ‘Not really, apart from the pink hair.’

  ‘Any other visitors?’ Carrigan asked and DC Singh told him about the sighting of the priest leaving the convent a couple of hours before the fire.

  ‘I showed the description to Hubbard and he recognised him immediately. Said his name was Father McCarthy and that he was a regular visitor.’

  ‘That bastard Holden never mentioned any priest,’ Carrigan said, not knowing if Holden had been evasive because he had something to hide or because it was his default position. ‘Do we have an address for this Father McCarthy?’

  Karlson shook his head. ‘I called the diocese. They confirmed that a Father Callum McCarthy worked for them, but when I asked where I could reach him they told me he was unavailable and then when I pressed them they put the phone down.’

  ‘They put the phone down?’

  ‘They put the phone down.’

  Carrigan felt that familiar heat in his chest, the case finally beginning to break open, showering them with leads, anomalies and inconsistencies. He knew that it was always somewhere in here, in the raw data sprawl of information and recalled fact, that the solution would be found. ‘Any other visitors?’

  Geneva told him about the double-parked SUV, the teacher’s description of the two men and the position of the school’s CCTV cameras. ‘Could be the same two that Hubbard mentioned.’

  ‘Berman? Get hold of that footage, let’s see if we can find out more about these men.’ Carrigan updated the whiteboard and stood back. He could always see the case better when it was written down, each piece of information and stray fact sequestered behind neat columns, but with the convent nothing was that simple. Usually, any anomaly in an investigation stuck out like a loose nail, but this case was proving to be so full of them that it was impossible to recognise what was genuinely pertinent. He knew it was his job to rein in the investigation and make sure they wouldn’t be led into spinning black holes of mystery and dead ends. Branch’s words rang sourly through his head. ‘So, we know the convent certainly had their share of visitors but we don’t know if this means anything yet.’

  ‘There’s more,’ Geneva interrupted.

  ‘More?’ Carrigan frowned and ran his fingers through his beard as Geneva explained about the jury-rigged fence at the back of the convent. ‘Looks like some junkies were using it regularly to fix. There were rumours someone was dealing out of that alley. The local station despatched some uniforms a few months back but apparently that didn’t help, so the nuns decided to take things into their own hands, stood there all day handing out leaflets for rehab clinics. I sent the SOCOs to have a look but with the snow washing everything away I’m not confident we’ll get much in terms of evidence. I think we should have a uniform posted there in case anyone returns.’

  Carrigan looked lost in swirls of thought, his voice strangely disembodied when he finally spoke. ‘I don’t
think that’s relevant to the fire and we’re stretched way too thin as it is with all these new leads to pursue.’

  Geneva looked down at her notes, her shoulders slumping. ‘I disagree.’

  The incident room was silent, everyone watching Carrigan to see how he would react, Karlson just managing to hide the smile that was creeping across his face.

  Carrigan stared at Geneva, then said, ‘What makes you think this has any relevance?’

  She looked surprised and took a swig of Coke to gather her thoughts together. ‘Holden told us that the nuns had their special projects, their lost sheep,’ Geneva said, thinking out loud. ‘Maybe the back garden was known as a safe place to fix, the door making it easy to slip in and out.’ She saw the team’s expressions suddenly slip into focus, a new intensity in their eyes, and continued. ‘Let’s say one of the junkies decided to go inside the convent, perhaps just wanting to get out of the cold, was staggering around and knocked one of the candles over . . .’

  ‘What about the eleventh victim?’ Carrigan asked, running the scenario through his mind.

  ‘Maybe she was the junkie we’re talking about or maybe she stumbled on them, tried to get them to leave and a struggle broke out? That would explain the head wound.’

  ‘I wish it was that simple.’ Carrigan could see Geneva was upset but they were in a war against time and memory and everything had to be sacrificed to the momentum of the case, it was one of the few things he believed in without reservation. ‘Karlson? Talk to your sources, find out who’s been fixing up in that courtyard and see if they know anything about the door in the fence,’ he said, trying to placate Geneva, but the mood was sour and deflated after that. It didn’t get any better when he told them about the pathologist’s findings.

  ‘I don’t know if this has anything to do with the case but the pathologist was pretty certain that five of the nuns had been tortured in an identical way.’ He remembered the shrivelled bodies flat on their gurneys, how every life, when put under the microscope, was a collection of shadow and rumour, inconsistencies, mysteries and petty misdemeanours. ‘Now, this was done to them at least thirty or forty years ago and I don’t want to waste too much time on it but – Singh and Miller – I want you to go back to the diocese and have a look through their archives. We need to know who these nuns were. Not all of them join young, remember. Some have previous lives, lives they’ve run away from. We’re seeing the nuns as a group now and that’s wrong. We need to see them as individuals . . .’ Carrigan looked up abruptly, his brow creasing. ‘Jennings? Can you get off the bloody phone – we’re in the middle of a briefing.’

  Jennings put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s forensics, sir. They’ve just processed some of the samples from the convent.’

  Carrigan grunted an apology and continued. ‘We don’t know if the nuns were locked in or if they locked the door themselves. We need to take into account both scenarios. We also need to consider whether the eleventh victim was the intended target and the nuns just collateral damage. Maybe this was a random accident, some junkie stumbling over a candle, but maybe it wasn’t. The fact the fire started directly beneath the very place where the nuns had just gathered for dinner and the presence of the eleventh victim make me think we’re looking at something else. We need to get an ID for her. Once we know who she was and why she was there that particular night, we’ll know a lot more about why the fire started.’ Carrigan scanned the room and saw that everyone’s eyes were focused and sharp. They now had something to pursue, a promise that somewhere in the confusion of random data and rumour, a killer was hiding. He was about to dismiss them when he saw Jennings putting down the phone and signalling agitatedly with his left hand. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve just talked to forensics.’

  ‘And?’ Carrigan said impatiently.

  Jennings looked down at his notes. ‘There was a funny smell in the chapel. They took some samples and tested them.’ Jennings hesitated, his breath short and laboured. ‘The samples came back positive for cocaine.’

  14

  There was nothing waiting for him at home. Sleep and rest were not to be found there. Carrigan felt frazzled and frayed, his body running on empty, too many coffees and the long winding rush of the day culminating in that last unexpected piece of evidence.

  Once he would have called his best friend, Ben. Once he would have walked over to Ben’s house and spent the night talking until the first faint light of morning. But Ben was in prison and Carrigan had put him there. He’d never second-guessed or regretted his decision, and knew it had been the right one, but on a night like this, that was little comfort.

  So he drove. From Hammersmith to Highgate, Hackney to Hounslow, through Southfields and Mortlake, across time and space and night. Three, four times a week, when sleep wouldn’t come, he would circle the city, passing through neighbourhoods he’d never seen before and would never see again. There was something soothing about the deserted streets, muted pavements and darkened shops, the rough edges and unrealised hopes rubbed away into shadowplay and night. This was the city in its most essential state, the bare blueprint on which the day’s events and tragedies had yet to be written, and he often felt that the city was somehow contained in these nocturnal orbits, that as long as he kept driving he could circumscribe the endless spill and burst of its boundaries.

  He crossed the wintry spine of Hyde Park, thinking about the case, the spiralling flow of new information, how everything they’d learned about the nuns in the last twenty-four hours seemed so at odds with their initial impressions. The snow was coming down in heavy drifts, erasing the horizon and greater city beyond. He drove past the night-dwellers huddled in narrow doorways, shivering and junk-sick on benches, or sleeping in shop alcoves under cardboard blankets. When you reached this depth of weather only those with truly nothing left and nowhere to go were still out on the streets and Carrigan tried not to think how little there was separating them from him.

  He rubbed his head and blinked as the traffic lights turned to green. So much they didn’t know yet. So many blank spaces on the map. The ACC calling every hour. Branch making frequent unannounced visits. The press clamouring and hectoring with every editorial. Ten days until Christmas.

  He kept coming back to the cocaine. He remembered the sour stinging smell in the chapel. What was it doing there and how significant was it?

  The angry honking of a cab snapped him out of his thoughts and he was surprised to find himself gliding down Bayswater Road. Maybe it was just muscle memory, the way he’d ended up back in his own patch like a homing pigeon, but he knew it was something more than that as he turned into St Peter’s Square.

  He got out of the car and stretched, his shoes instantly disappearing under layers of snow. The icy chill reaching his toes gave him a welcome jolt. He ducked under the crime-scene tape and looked up at the house. The moon rained light on the ruins and the snow hid the ugly burn scars and twisted metal. But it wasn’t the house he was interested in, it was what lay beneath.

  The fire investigator had told him the basement would be secured some time tomorrow and that he’d be able to inspect it then, but he couldn’t wait – the unexpected findings of the SOCOs, and an offhand comment from the caretaker, had made sure of that.

  He passed through the gaping doorframe and into the hallway. The smell filled his nostrils instantly. Despite the howling wind which rattled through the building, it hadn’t dissipated, leaking from the wood and curled metal.

  The firemen had strung emergency lights across the walls. Small bulbs lay in white plastic holders as if in imitation of fairy lights. When he pulled the switch, he was surprised to find they worked. Carrigan briefly looked up at the dining room then headed for the basement stairs. He opened the door and saw that the firemen had strung the lights all the way down. He put his torch back in his pocket and examined the stairs. They’d been charred and cracked by the fire but the SOCOs had managed to make their way up and down them without incident.

>   The stairs wobbled as he put his weight on them, his palms curled tight around the banister, but they held and, as he descended, he noticed that the smell had become stronger and harsher, tearing at his nasal passages, a bitter snap of taste at the back of his throat.

  The emergency lights emitted a foggy yellow glow so that the basement resembled something from an old photograph, a snapshot of things long gone, drenched in sepia and dust. Carrigan’s eyes slowly adjusted to the murky gloom and he could see that he was in a large single space, demarcated by darkness and cloistered areas. There were no windows, and large arched transepts swept along the centre of the room tapering down into plain stony columns. The basement had been used as a crypt and three of the walls were lined with dusty grey tombs, each about four feet high. The back wall was bare and had a table at its centre, a large 1970s piece of office retro, sturdy enough to have withstood the fire. An empty chair was tucked neatly underneath. Tall metal bookcases lined the walls to either side of the table, the paint blistered and the shelves holding only the ashes of their former occupants.

  The corner area was partially walled off by linked columns and Carrigan could see slant tools dangling from hooks and slots driven into the wall, screwdrivers and hammers and pliers of all sizes. He got to his knees and examined the floor underneath. The area looked like an overhead shot of volcanic badlands but, instead of black, the hardened lava was white and creamy. Carrigan picked up one of these strange congealed forms and saw it was composed of several different types of plastic which had melted and reconfigured on cooling. The ash was peppered with small burnished metal parts, cogs and springs and pulleys which had survived the fire. There were also a handful of motherboards and processors, scorched and cracked and useless.

  He made some notes, then got up and examined the tombs. They were made of granite and white stone and the dates inscribed on their sides ranged from 1926 to 2009. There were no carved angels, comforting saints or words of hope, only the blank hewn stone, as austere as the lives of those resting within had been. He counted eighteen tombs, lined up in even rows along three of the walls, uniform in size and design, the marble and stone cracked and patterned with the years. He thought of the people walking by on the street outside, taking their children to school, unaware of the mute ashy bodies beneath their feet, and it made him think of all the undiscovered corpses leaking slowly away below parks and moorland, new developments and kitchen floors. Two hundred and fifty thousand people went missing every year in Britain – how many of them had been murdered? No one knew. The irony was that the killers they caught and locked away were the careless or stupid ones, the ones who’d made mistakes. The idea of a Darwinian process of natural selection among murderers was something he didn’t want to think about.