‘Okay, good, so we can get the skulls sent to Kennedy. He can get DNA from them and compare it to the bodies to confirm a match.’ He looked back to the computer screen as if there was something important there instead of a routine reply to the supplies department. ‘I’m in the middle of this, we don’t need to go there, do we?’
‘I think it’s probably best.’ Seeing West open his mouth to argue, Andrews held up a hand to stop him. ‘Almost fifty years ago, you didn’t argue with the church and I’m not sure that much has changed. Whitefriar Street, as I’m sure you know, is run by the Carmelites. When the skulls were found, they refused to release them to police custody and wanted to give them a Christian burial. They reached a compromise in the end and the skulls are stored in the cellars under the church. It might take a bit of your best persuasive patter to get them to release them.’
‘Just when I think I’ve heard everything,’ West said. He reached for the desk phone, dialled a number and put the phone on speaker. ‘Niall, how would you like four skulls to go with those bodies?’
‘You found them?’
‘No, we thought we’d pick some up in Brown Thomas,’ Andrews said, referencing the large upmarket department store on Grafton Street.
‘Ignore my sarcastic partner, Niall, no, it seems St Valentine is looking after them for us.’
Niall Kennedy’s sigh came loudly down the line. ‘Are you two on something? Or don’t you have anything better to be doing?’
‘I’m serious. There are four skulls in the cellars of Whitefriar Street Church.’
‘Where St Valentine’s remains are stored in a casket. Okay, I get you now. Sorry, maybe I’d find your combined witty repartee amusing if I hadn’t been awake half the night.’
‘Betsy still teething?’
‘I’m just relieved she’s not a crocodile,’ Kennedy said. ‘Right, are you bringing the skulls in? I assume you want me to confirm they belong to the bodies we have, although I’d say it’s a given.’
‘We’re on our way to fetch them now. We should make it over to you late morning or early afternoon.’
‘Fine, give me a heads-up when you’re on your way.’ Kennedy cackled at his own joke and hung up.
‘He always has to have the last word,’ Andrews said with a shake of his head.
‘That’s a definite case of the kettle calling the pot black.’ West got to his feet and took his jacket from the back of the door. ‘Let’s get going.’
They were stopped in the doorway by Sam Jarvis. With his jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie slightly askew, a serious expression on his almost too-handsome face… he looked as if he was posing for a fashion shoot. ‘Can I have a word?’
‘A quick one if it can’t wait till later.’ West stepped back into his office and sat on the edge of the desk.
‘It’ll just take a sec.’ Jarvis stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. Now that he had West’s attention, he seemed unsure what to do with it. Finally, he blurted out, ‘It’s about Muriel Hennessy, the missing woman who turned up in that laneway on Friday.’
‘Yes, what about her?’
‘She was found almost a mile from her home. Because there was a pool of vomit found nearby, we’d been running with the idea that she was feeling sick and went off the main road for a bit of privacy to throw up. The post-mortem is being done today so we should have a cause of death.’ He hesitated and shuffled from foot to foot.
West wanted to tell him to get on with it, but he recognised the hesitation as the young detective working things out in his head before he spoke. He might have wished that Jarvis had worked it out before he came to speak to him but he wasn’t going to criticise one of his team for doing their job well. Andrews, standing behind, raised his eyes to the ceiling.
‘It’s just that we haven’t been treating it as suspicious and I wonder…’ Jarvis took a deep breath and lifted his chin as if he knew what he was about to say was going to be challenged. He was the newest member of the team, still finding his feet and slightly in awe of both West and Andrews. ‘I wonder if we might be making a mistake.’
‘Go on,’ West said encouragingly.
Jarvis relaxed a little and took a step closer. ‘I was looking through her medical records. It says her mobility was limited due to arthritis in her hips. But she was found a mile from her home… would she have walked that far? And what was she doing in that area, anyway? Neighbours said that the only time they’ve seen her out in the last few months was when she walked to the local shops which she did about once a week. They’re only a five-minute walk away but in the opposite direction.’
West looked at Jarvis’s eager face. ‘We’ve still no indication of when she was seen last, do we?’
‘No. The son and daughter called around to see her regularly, the daughter at the weekend, the son usually on a weekday after work. He said he’d called to her on the Friday, the daughter saw her on the Sunday, then nobody saw her again.’
‘Five days,’ West muttered. ‘It’s a long time frame to cover. Right, so what’s your plan?’
Jarvis grinned and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. ‘We need to narrow down that time frame, if we can. I’ve already checked and, unfortunately, there is no CCTV along that route but I want to canvass the neighbourhood. Someone must have seen her in the last week. I also want to speak to her son and daughter again, find out more about her. And,’ he finished, ‘I’d like to check her finances. See if her death leaves anyone the richer.’
‘Good.’ West got to his feet. ‘Get Allen to give you a hand and keep me informed.’
‘Jarvis and Allen make a good team,’ Andrews said as they drove out of the car park. ‘But do you really think the Hennessy woman’s death is suspicious?’
West turned onto the main road and it wasn’t until they were stopped at lights that he turned to Andrews and shrugged. ‘Jarvis does. I’m happy enough to go along with that, see what happens. For a couple of days anyway. Much the same as we’re doing with Checkley.’
‘Baxter is digging. If there’s anything to find, he’ll find it.’
Andrews’ choice of word was an unfortunate one. It immediately brought West back to the night before. It was what Edel had said. Was the reality of being married to a garda hitting her now that he’d put a ring on her finger. He thought they’d been together long enough, that she understood. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she’d decided she wanted her crime to be limited to what happened between the pages of a book.
‘It’s Brother Lonergan we’ll be meeting,’ Andrews said, breaking into his thoughts and dragging him back to the case. ‘Seems to be a helpful, friendly man.’
‘I hope he stays like that when we tell him we have to take the skulls away.’
‘That’s why I wanted you to come along. I have great faith in your persuasive powers. I’m sure then he’ll be happy to be co-operative.’ Andrews spoke like it was a fait accompli.
‘I wish I had half your faith.’ West took the turn that would lead them to the small car park behind the church. He parked and peered through the window. ‘It looks better from the front.’
PRIVATE was painted in white on the only door visible to the rear of the building. Andrews rapped his knuckles against it, waited a moment and tried again, louder. If anyone heard, they weren’t rushing to answer.
West pointed to a narrow passageway to one side of the building. ‘I bet that goes around to the main entrance.’
The rather dull grey frontage of Whitefriar Street Church was made memorable by its imposing entrance where gold-painted statues on pedestals stood as sentinels. West knew one to be Mary but couldn’t put a name to the other. He guessed Andrews would know, and he was right.
‘It’s St John.’
Why those two were chosen was a conversation for another day. West and Andrews moved into the body of the church and looked around. It wasn’t a church West had been in before and he gazed curiously towards the side chapel where he knew the remains of St Valentine we
re kept. ‘You know they’ve never opened the casket to see if there are remains inside or not,’ he said, his voice hushed.
Andrews looked at him. ‘You know such odd things. How do they know there’s anything inside then, if they’ve never looked?’
West had read about it, years before, and it had stuck in his head. ‘The casket was sent from Rome with a letter from Pope Gregory so they took it on faith.’
‘Ah faith, it’s a wonderful thing.’ Andrews headed down the central aisle of the church as if he knew exactly where to go. West lagged behind. Maybe he should have a bit of faith and stop worrying about stupid things like Edel leaving her ring off and being a bit distant. What was it both she and Andrews were always telling him – that he took himself far too seriously? Maybe. He lengthened his stride to catch up with his partner.
A man dressed in the traditional brown habit of a Carmelite monk stood to one side of the altar. He was engrossed in what he was doing, his fingers splayed around a large, floor-standing, brass candleholder.
‘Brother Lonergan?’
Large eyes, the same colour as his habit, turned to look at the two detectives. The monk made a final attempt to finish what he was doing, then took the top part of the stand with him as he walked across to join them. ‘Kaput,’ he said, waving the piece of metal in his hand. ‘Or perhaps I should simply admit it’s beyond my capability to fix, which for a DIY fiend, as I am, is never an easy admission to make.’ He waved a hand to a doorway behind the altar. ‘We can chat in my office.’
It was a fancy name for a small room that appeared to serve a variety of functions. Storage being a main one, there was little room for three men. ‘It’s a bit of a squash,’ Brother Lonergan said, easing a headless statue back to allow access. By dint of moving a few piles of books, and a stack of dusty files, he made space for West and Andrews to sit. Then he sat behind the cluttered desk and folded his arms, his hands vanishing into the cavernous sleeves of his habit. ‘You’ve come for the Four Marys, I gather.’
West saw the smile in Brother Lonergan’s eyes so guessed the reference was supposed to amuse. Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was talking about and waited for enlightenment.
It came, as it often did, from Andrews. ‘I wouldn’t have thought the Carmelites were big Bunty fans,’ he said.
Brother Lonergan laughed. ‘It was a young Carmelite novitiate who found the skulls. She had been a Bunty fan before joining the order and it was she who named them Simpson, Field, Cotter and Radleigh after the comic strip, Four Marys. You’re talking about almost fifty years ago, gentlemen, they got their entertainment where they could.’ He shrugged. ‘The names stuck.’
‘We may be able to give them their proper names,’ West said. ‘Recently, four headless bodies were discovered. The state pathologist estimates the bodies to be up to fifty years old so it is highly probable that the skulls that were discovered here belong to them.’
Brother Lonergan inclined his head but said nothing.
‘I know some of the argument for keeping the skulls in Whitefriar Street Church was to keep them somewhere sanctified rather than having them kept in boxes in garda stores, but this time we hope to reunite the body parts and give each of the four a proper, dignified funeral.’
‘That would be a fitting end for them,’ the monk said. ‘Leaving the skulls was a strange thing for someone to have done. The garda investigation at the time, as I’m sure you know, turned up nothing. Nowadays, thanks to the CCTV cameras we’ve had installed it would be impossible for someone to get away with leaving them as they were found.’
West frowned. He’d read the report but it didn’t specify how or where the skulls had been left. ‘I assumed they’d been left in a box in the church.’
‘No, not at all. They were displayed.’ Lonergan got to his feet. ‘It’s probably easier to show you, then I can take you down to the cellars.’
They negotiated the passage from the office and retraced their steps to the church and across to the side chapel of St Valentine.
‘Have you been before?’ Brother Lonergan said, stopping in front of the pews. When both detectives shook their heads, he pointed to the altar.
West moved closer for a better look. The body of the hollow structure was formed of three different coloured marbles, the top a slab of solid black. A metal and glass grill covered a window cut into the front section of marble and behind this was a casket.
‘That’s it?’ West turned to look at Brother Lonergan.
‘Not exactly. The casket containing the relics and blood of St Valentine are in another casket inside.’ He turned and pointed to the cameras that were set high above. ‘A necessity, I’m afraid. It’s a popular tourist destination because of the whole St Valentine’s Day rigmarole. We try to encourage people to remember he is a saint, and not a social media celebrity but sometimes…’ He shrugged and left it at that. ‘Up there.’ He pointed to where a life-size statue of St Valentine stood in a mosaic-lined alcove set above and behind the altar. ‘That’s where the skulls were left. Neatly placed around the base of the statue.’
‘I’m surprised nobody saw anything,’ West said.
‘Almost fifty years ago we didn’t get as many sightseeing visitors. Churches were where people came to pray. It is possible, too, that the skulls were there for a number of days before anyone thought them out of the ordinary.’ He pointed to the far side of the church. ‘The door to the cellar is over there. If you think my office is cluttered, wait till you see down below.’
The cellar was accessed down a narrow, damp, tortuous stairway that brought West unsettling memories of Clare Island. At the bottom, a single light on a side wall did little to dispel the darkness and even the torch that Brother Lonergan took from a shelf provided little light. The ceiling was low, barely high enough for the six-foot West and Andrews to walk without stooping. Every available space was jam-packed with old statues, light fittings, huge candleholders, urns, and other items removed from the church over the years but never thrown away. It would have been the ideal place to have filmed a horror movie.
‘The skulls would have been better housed with us,’ Andrews whispered to West.
‘Through here.’ Brother Lonergan pushed open a worn wooden door. Inside, the space was small but it appeared to be free from clutter. There was no light and it wasn’t until the monk shone the torch around that they could see what it was.
West was first to understand. ‘It’s a mausoleum.’
‘It is… or should I say it was.’ Brother Lonergan moved the torch along the walls. ‘It was used when the church was first built but within a few years it was full and it wasn’t used again after 1835. Now and then, somebody suggests moving the remains and putting this space to better use but each time, the dead have been allowed to remain.’ He focused the beam of the torch onto a shelf on the back wall. ‘There you are. Meet the Four Marys.’
10
With the four skulls packed carefully in a box in the boot of West’s car, he and Andrews set off for the Office of the State Pathologist. In Drumcondra, West indicated to pull across the road and parked outside Thunders.
‘Kennedy has you well trained,’ Andrews said.
‘You don’t want anything?’
An eyebrow went up. ‘Silly question. I’ll have an éclair.’
It was a few minutes before West returned to the car. He opened the back door to drop the box of pastries on the seat and was almost deafened by Johnny Cash. Andrews, humming along to the radio, eyes shut, was oblivious to his muttered ‘For goodness’ sake!’
Back in the driver’s seat, West reached for the volume control and turned it down.
‘You’ve no soul,’ Andrews said without opening his eyes.
Ignoring him, West started the engine and resumed the journey.
They were in luck and found a parking space close by. Five minutes later they were standing in Niall Kennedy’s office. ‘You’ll want this one here,’ West said, putting the cake box on top of a
pile of folders where it wobbled precariously before settling. ‘I think that one needs to go elsewhere.’
‘The Four Marys.’ Andrews lifted the lid of the box to show the contents. ‘Meet Simpson, Radleigh, Cotter and Field.’
To his surprise, Kennedy grinned and took the box from him. ‘I didn’t take you for a Bunty fan. My older sister was though. She had four hideous dolls named after them, used to take them everywhere with her.’ He kicked the door open. ‘The lab is free, let’s bring them in there and have a look.’
Kennedy put the box down on a stainless-steel trolley, pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and opened the box. He whistled softly under his breath as he took out each skull and looked at it closely. A few minutes later, all four were lined up, their empty eye sockets staring at the three men.
‘Very interesting,’ Kennedy said, peeling off the gloves. He pressed the foot pedal of a bin and dropped them inside. ‘I assume that other box contained something equally exciting?’
‘Sugar and cream in perfect proportion,’ West said as they walked back to Kennedy’s office.
Andrews perched on the side of the desk eating his éclair while West and Kennedy with their meringues on plates, took the two chairs.
With his pastry gone in three bites, Andrews’ focus was back on the skulls. ‘What do you think?’
‘That these meringues are the best,’ Kennedy said, then shrugged. ‘I need to take some measurements, do a DNA comparison but I’d be surprised if they weren’t a match to our headless bodies. On a purely visual examination, two are marginally smaller indicating female skulls.’
‘Or younger victims?’
Kennedy shook his head. ‘I’ve put the ages of the older corpses to be between thirty-five to forty-five and the younger between twenty and thirty.’
‘That’s a big margin for error,’ West said, putting his plate down and brushing meringue crumbs from his hands.
‘Bone morphology – symphyseal and auricular changes – doesn’t get more accurate than a ten-year plus or minus, I’m afraid,’ Kennedy said.
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