by Val McDermid
He nodded, with another uneasy glance at his lawyer. Paula was mildly surprised at the lack of intervention from the brief.
‘Did nobody ever stop and ask you what you were doing? None of the other girls?’
Martinu frowned. ‘I did it after dark. The dormitories were round the back, so they wouldn’t see the lights. The nuns didn’t want to upset the other girls, see? So I’d dig the grave, then the nuns would do the funeral service and I’d fill it in again.’
‘Just the nuns? Not the priest?’
A long moment of silence. Martinu stared at the table, brow furrowed, apparently deep in thought. ‘No,’ he said at last, meeting her eye. ‘Never the priest.’
‘And you didn’t think that was odd? A funeral without a priest?’ Paula didn’t know much about Catholic doctrine but she was pretty sure there was supposed to be a priest. Particularly in a church that paid so little regard to any woman who wasn’t the Virgin Mary.
‘Look, I did what I was told. Reverend Mother, she said it was OK, she said they’d had the proper service in the chapel, this was only the burial.’ His strong hands bunched into fists. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. I just did my job.’
‘As my client says. What exactly do you imagine you’re going to charge him with?’ At last, an intervention from the lawyer.
‘This is a witness interview, Mr Cohen. Any charges arising? That’s above my pay grade.’ Paula smiled. ‘Has this been going on all the time you were working for the nuns, Jezza? The whole twenty years?’
He frowned. She could see the wheels going round. Was it memory or scheming? Hard to tell. At last, he said, ‘I’d been there about four or five years before the Reverend Mother asked me to do it.’
‘Sister Mary Patrick?’
‘No, it was before her time. Sister Bernadette, it was back then.’
‘How many girls have you buried over the years, Jezza?’
Another sideways glance at the lawyer. ‘I didn’t keep count,’ he said. ‘It’s not like it happened every week, or anything. Maybe once or twice a year at the most.’
Shaken by the numbers as well as his casual demeanour, Paula struggled to maintain her composure. ‘Once or twice a year? For, what, fifteen? Sixteen years? That’s a helluva lot of dead girls not to be asking about, Jezza.’
‘Look, if you think something dodgy went on with them, you need to be talking to the nuns. All I did was put them in the ground, like I was told to.’ He scowled at her, daring her to take issue with him.
‘And we will be talking to the nuns, Jezza. But right now, we need to talk about the other bodies.’
Now the solicitor sat up straight in his seat. ‘Other bodies?’
‘Did your client not mention them when he briefed you? I guess they haven’t made the headlines yet. We’ve discovered a second group of human remains. Not in the lawn. It’s early days yet. We don’t have much detail but they don’t appear to be young girls. And they’re buried in your market garden, Jezza. At the bottom of your raised beds and under your vegetable plots.’ Paula sat back, watching the impact of her words. Martinu seemed to shrink into himself, shoulders hunched, hands clasped between his knees.
Not even his years of training and experience could keep Cohen from looking startled. His eyes widened and his pen stopped mid-word on his pad. ‘I need a word with my client,’ he gabbled.
They went through the rigmarole of turning off the recording, then Paula and Steve left the room. ‘You think I didn’t push him hard enough, don’t you?’ Paula leaned against the wall, longing for a cigarette. This was when the old cravings hit hardest. Mostly she didn’t miss smoking, though she could tell anyone who was interested when it was she’d smoked her last cigarette, down to the day and the hour. But in an interview, when she was trying to get the better of someone who didn’t want to give something up, that was when she longed for the business of lighting up, drawing hard and deep and feeling that glorious buzz.
‘I’d have gone in harder,’ Steve said.
‘We can’t afford to be that bothered about the nuns, even though they were clearly a bunch of sadistic heartless bitches. We’ll never get a cause of death on those kids. We’ll be lucky to get assault charges on what happened to those poor bloody girls. I don’t see the CPS pursuing conspiracy to prevent a lawful and decent burial. It’s not something they’d relish taking through the courts. It’s complicated and difficult and you can bet the nuns will all be hiding behind each other. It’s not like these girls have got families screaming for justice. But the bodies in the raised beds? That’s a different story. Sophie texted me earlier to say the victims have got plastic bags taped over their heads. That’s murder right there. And that’s what we’re going to hit him with as soon as the suit calls us back in.’
‘I still think—’
But whatever Steve thought was lost as the lawyer’s head appeared at the door. ‘We’re ready, Inspector.’
Act Two got under way without delay. ‘Not little girls, these bodies,’ Paula said. Jezza glared at her, his face immobile. ‘As I said, early days yet. We don’t know much about them. What we do know is that they were murdered.’
Jezza jerked involuntarily.
‘What do you say to that, Jezza?’ Paula leaned in, forearms on the table, eyes not leaving his.
‘No comment.’ His voice was cracked and dry.
‘They had plastic bags taped round their heads, Jezza. I don’t think the nuns did that, do you?’
‘No comment.’
‘Plastic holds fingerprints really well. So does adhesive tape. You’d be amazed how many people leave prints on the sticky side of the tape. Usually from the last time they used it before they taped up some part of someone’s body. Are we going to find your prints, Jezza? Your DNA?’
‘No comment.’ It was almost a howl. Cohen put a hand on his client’s arm, but Martinu flinched away from him. ‘I never killed anybody,’ he shouted.
Paula shook her head, apparently more in sorrow than in anger. ‘You see, that’s not how it looks, Jezza. Your vegetable garden. Raised beds that you built. You’ve got the shed full of tools. You’ve got the digger. You’ve been burying bodies for the nuns for years. You can see why I’m thinking we don’t have to look any further for our killer.’
‘You’re badgering my client, Inspector. This is purely circumstantial. You have no evidence.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘Come on, Mr Martinu. We’re leaving now.’
Martinu looked confused, but he stumbled to his feet. Paula stood.
‘Not so fast, Mr Cohen.’ She jerked her head towards the door and Steve moved to cut off the exit. ‘Jerome Martinu, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder—’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Martinu shouted, lunging towards her. ‘It was that fucking priest.’
34
As we become a more secular society, you’d imagine the numbers of killers claiming religious reasons for their crimes would diminish. I don’t have statistics on this, but anecdotally, if anything it’s on the increase . . .
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Alvin was left in a small anteroom off the tiled hallway. It resembled a police interview room in layout, but no police interview room ever boasted a burnished table with the kind of curly legs he’d only ever seen in antique shops. On one side stood a carved wooden seat with broad arms; on the other, a pair of severe and sturdy chairs. He stayed on his feet, studying the prints on the wall. They looked like the kind of old paintings you got on Christmas cards from people who wanted you to think they were more cultured than you.
The door opened behind him and he turned to see a tall nun in the doorway. The fabric of her habit was so perfectly black it made her look like negative space. On her head was a complicated starched confection that reminded Alvin of the TV adaptation of The Handmaid’s Tale, if Offred’s headgear had been folded back in a kind of go-faster spoiler. With the light behind her, her face looked austere and unlined. She could have been any age between thirty and sixty. ‘Serge
ant Ambrose? I am the Superior General of the Order of the Blessed Pearl.’ As she spoke she moved to the ornate chair and gestured that he should sit opposite. ‘You may call me Mother Benedict.’
‘Thanks for seeing me.’ Alvin sat down on one of the least comfortable chairs he’d ever experienced.
‘We are aware of the outside world, Sergeant. We saw the news about the Bradesden house. We anticipated a visit from the police.’ Now the light was falling on her face, he could see there were fine lines around her eyes and on her forehead. Nearer fifty than thirty, then. Delicate features, dark eyes under surprisingly heavy brows.
‘I understand some of the nuns from Bradesden are living here now?’
She inclined her head. ‘Can I ask exactly what you think you have discovered in the grounds of Bradesden?’
That was how it was going to be, then. ‘We know we have discovered the remains of up to forty children and adolescents. We know the approximate number based on the skulls that have been recovered so far. As far as we can ascertain, there are no records of any formal burials at the convent apart from those of nuns and priests in the official graveyard.’
‘And you think this has something to do with the members of the order?’
‘It seems likely,’ Alvin said. He stretched his legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. ‘Being as how the skeletons have been there longer than the five years since the convent closed. And early forensic evidence indicates that at least some of them definitely went in the ground while the convent was up and running.’
Her hand went to the mother of pearl-encrusted crucifix that hung on her chest. ‘God rest their souls. But how can you place responsibility for this at the door of our sisters?’
He didn’t think she was stupid, but if she wanted to play that game, he’d indulge her. ‘Well, they were responsible for the girls in the refuge and the school.’
‘But you don’t know for certain that these remains are of any of our girls.’
‘I don’t think there’s much likelihood of them not being your girls. But wherever they came from, they ended up under your front lawn, Mother. And that means I need to talk to the sisters who came to you from Bradesden.’
She gave a small sharp sigh. ‘I’m not sure that will be of much use to you.’
‘Why not? They must have seen something. You don’t have your front lawn dug up forty times and not notice.’
Another sigh. ‘Nuns are not like other people, Sergeant. Even in a working order such as ours, we strive to focus on the interior life. Worldly concerns often don’t penetrate our consciousness.’
Did she really expect him to fall for this? ‘Nuns are human beings, though. And curiosity afflicts all of us to some extent. I will need to talk to the sisters.’
‘Women become nuns for all sorts of reasons. Some have a very clear religious vocation, an irresistible desire to offer up their lives to the service of God. Some come to us because they see this life as an escape from the modern world and all its temptations and troubles, only to find that their troubles accompany them and must still be faced. Some come seeking the contemplative life, a devotion to the beauty of our daily offices. One thing we all have in common in the Order of the Blessed Pearl is a repudiation of the outside world. And of course, the vow of obedience. If they were told to ask no questions and put something from their mind, they will have done so.’
Alvin stared at her in disbelief. ‘You’re saying the Mother Superior could do whatever she liked, with total immunity? Just tell the nuns to forget anything dodgy, and bingo! It’s forgotten?’
‘Reverend Mothers are not prone to what you call “dodgy” behaviour. But in essence, what you are saying is correct. The nuns under her supervision are obliged to put aside their God-given free will and accept the need to obey in all things.’ Her expression was placid, as if this were a matter of no account.
‘So, they could have been turning a blind eye to all sorts of things? And if they talked about it, they’d be in trouble?’
‘If a nun is privy to something that troubles her conscience, she can bring it to her priest.’
Alvin scoffed. ‘And that’s covered by the seal of the confessional, right?’
‘Yes.’
He shook his head. ‘You make the mafia look like chatterboxes.’
‘I’m not being deliberately obstructive, Sergeant. But this is the rule we’ve lived by for centuries.’
‘It protects the guilty.’
A faint smile. ‘It would be our contention that we are not “the guilty”. That when we do fall short, we confess our failings and we are shriven. The nuns who came here from Bradesden will not be able to further your inquiries. Their Reverend Mother, possibly. But she is not among us.’
‘I’m struggling with this, Mother Benedict. We’re talking about the bodies of forty young girls, girls who were almost certainly in the care of your order. And you’re hiding behind an outdated set of rules.’ He shifted his position, elbows on his knees, his big head thrust forward. ‘There will be a coroner’s inquest at the very least. Your nuns will be under oath. They’ll have to answer then. They might as well answer now.’
Her hand moved to her crucifix again. ‘And the answer will be the same. They know nothing. The sisters who came to us from Bradesden are the most elderly members of the community. Two of them are suffering from dementia, so you must rule them out immediately. I can assure you that the others know nothing about these matters. If you insist, you may interview them. But their answers will be the same.’
Three hours and eight nuns later, Alvin learned she was telling no less than the truth. The six who did not have dementia had as much to say on the subject of dead children as those who barely knew their own names. Whatever they might have known, they’d consigned to a place in their heads behind a heavy door with more bolts and padlocks than he could unfasten. Three simply stared at him in bewilderment so perfect he began to doubt himself. One couldn’t stop talking about the wonderful life of the convent and the blessing of being given the care of such promising girls and the joy of being in the service of a nun like Mother Mary Patrick. A fifth refused to meet his eyes, staring into her lap for the duration of the interview and barely responding in monosyllables. The wrong monosyllables, in Alvin’s opinion. The sixth admonished him to judge not lest he be judged and refused to comment further except to say, ‘Whatever happened at Bradesden, it happened under the watchful eye of Our Lady and St Margaret Clitherow. They would not tolerate any occasion of sin under their roof.’
Through it all, Mother Benedict sat unsmiling, her fingers moving continuously over the glowing amber beads of a rosary. As the last nun left the room, she rose to her feet. ‘I’m sorry you’ve wasted so much of your time, Sergeant. You really should have taken my word for what the sisters would be able to tell you.’ She finally gave a full smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Poverty, chastity and obedience, Sergeant. And the greatest of these is obedience. Nuns don’t lie. We simply train ourselves to forget that which we are not supposed to know.’
35
When we see Freudian analysis portrayed in films and TV, they often make a thing out of the fact that the psychoanalyst seldom speaks. There’s a rationale in that approach. Silence is the interviewer’s friend. Most of us struggle with the overwhelming urge to fill it.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Paula rested her head on the steering wheel of her car and breathed deeply. She was hungry, tired and late for the evening arrangement she’d been looking forward to. But Martinu’s sudden accusation provoked one of those sudden flurries of activity that descended on major investigations whenever there came an unexpected change of direction.
Paula and Steve had of course promptly steered Martinu and his lawyer back to the table to continue the interview. Initially, Martinu had sat hunched over, his head in his hands, rocking to and fro on his chair. But Paula caught a glimpse of him flicking a glance at her through his fingers and fo
und herself less than convinced by his apparent come-apart.
‘Come on, Jezza,’ she said gently, not letting her doubt show. ‘I know this is hard, but you will feel like a weight’s come off your shoulders when you tell us what you know. You’re not betraying Father Keenan, you’re doing the right thing.’
He looked up, his features squeezed tight in an expression of pain. ‘He was my priest. He said I wouldn’t understand what he was involved in, but it was God’s work.’ He spread his hands, palms upwards. ‘What was I supposed to do?’
‘He had no right to involve you in any of this,’ Paula said. ‘But we need to get to the bottom of it, and you can help us here, Jezza. And you can help yourself too. Things look pretty bad for you right now, I won’t lie. But if you tell us the whole story, explain to us how you got drawn into it, it’ll make a difference for you.’
He rubbed his eyes then looked at his lawyer. ‘I’m going to tell them,’ he said.
Cohen patted his arm. ‘That’s your choice, Mr Martinu. But I will intervene if I think you’re potentially making things worse for yourself.’
Martinu shook his head. ‘She’s right. I’ve been carrying this weight around and I’m tired of it.’
‘What did you do?’
Martinu looked away, twisting his fingers round each other. ‘Same as I did for the nuns. I dug holes when I was asked to. But I never filled them in for the priest. He did that himself.’
‘Talk me through it,’ Paula said.
He was shifting in his seat, uneasy and struggling. His manner was completely different from when he’d told them about digging the graves for the nuns. She reckoned he’d known all along it was wrong but he hadn’t known how to make it right, how to stand up to a priest. ‘He came to me . . . it must have been seven or eight years ago. He said he’d been doing a lot of work with the homeless in Bradfield.’ He gave her an imploring look. ‘It’s the kind of thing a priest’s supposed to do, right? Help people down the bottom of the pile?’
