Unholy Murder

Chapter Twenty-three

Jane established the time in Ontario was three in the afternoon. She phoned the Kingston police department and spoke with a Detective Inspector Tremblay. Jane told him she was investigating the murder of a woman they believed to be Melissa Bailey, who’d been a Kingston resident until 1953, when she came to the UK to become a novice at a convent in Bickley. The inspector seemed shocked when Jane told him how Melissa had been murdered.

‘I’ll do whatever I can to help,’ Tremblay said.

‘We’re almost certain our victim is Melissa Bailey, but we don’t have a confirmed identification due to the state of her body. I don’t have Christian names for her parents, but I’m led to believe her father is a university lecturer,’ Jane told him.

‘There’s a university here called Queen’s,’ he said.

‘I’d imagine Mr Bailey must be in his fifties or sixties by now, so he may be retired,’ Jane replied.

‘Leave it with me. I’ll get on to Queen’s University right away. If I trace the Baileys, would you like me to inform them their daughter might be dead or ask them to call you?’ Tremblay asked.

‘I’d be grateful if you could tell them in person,’ Jane said. ‘I think it would be better if they know what happened to Melissa before speaking to me hundreds of miles away over the phone. I’ll fax you over a copy of the dental chart our forensic odontologist made. Hopefully, if you trace Melissa’s parents, their family dentist might still have her old records and could do a comparison to give us a positive ID.’

‘If I do get your victim’s dental record, I’ll get our forensic dentist to check it as well. I wish you well in your investigation, Detective Tennison. As soon as I locate the Baileys, I’ll call you.’

After a meal in the canteen, Jane typed up her reports, and it was nearly nine before she got home. She was so tired she went straight to bed but tossed and turned, unable to get to sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about the last two phone conversations she’d had with Nick, and his coldness towards her. She knew she’d done nothing to upset him, so why did it feel as if he wanted to end their relationship?

Jane thought about Thomas Durham and wondered if he was one of the builders Julie had seen fixing the convent roof. If it was him, and maybe Lee Holland, too, it meant they had deliberately not mentioned their connection to the convent before Missy had been murdered. Thomas Durham suggested he’d had nothing to do with the convent until long after the fire, but Jane also wondered if he was the builder who’d deemed the tunnel unsafe and bricked up the crypt door. Then something else worrying struck her: was it possible Thomas had revealed something to Nick about the convent, and that was what was forcing him to end their relationship?

Jane woke early, still tired from a restless night. She had a quick shower and got dressed.

‘Morning, Jane,’ Gerry said as she was about to get in the car. Spud relieved himself on the grass verge.

‘Morning, Gerry. How are you and Spud today?’ she replied, walking over and stroking the dog.

‘We’re both well, thank you. Another early start?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a really busy day ahead of me.’

‘That’s a nice Range Rover your boyfriend Nick has, though I prefer the Jag.’

‘He uses the Range Rover for work. It’s more reliable on muddy building sites than the Jag,’ Jane told him.

‘I thought about getting a Range Rover myself. But I realised it wouldn’t be very practical for a small dog like Spud trying to get in and out of it.’

Jane tried not to laugh. She doubted very much he could afford a Range Rover. But she also wondered how he knew Nick had one.

‘Did Nick take you for a spin in it?’

‘No. I saw him parked up when I was walking Spud last night.’

Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘Outside my house?’

He pointed. ‘No. Just up the road. I went over and said hello.’

‘What did he say?’ a curious Jane asked.

‘Not much. He said he had to go and see his father. Then he drove off.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About nine.’

Jane wondered if she’d just missed Nick before getting home, or perhaps, feeling guilty for his earlier behaviour, he hadn’t had the courage to knock on her door. Either way, she wished she’d been able to talk to him and sort things out between them. As she drove to work to pick up DC Boon, she tried to focus on the day ahead.

Knowing the Dartford Tunnel into Essex would be busy during rush hour, Jane and Boon decided to go to the photography shop in Bromley before travelling to Canvey Island.

It was just before nine and the small shop in Market Square wasn’t open yet, but the sound of a man singing loudly inside could be heard on the street.

‘He’s got a good voice,’ Boon remarked.

‘The song sounds familiar,’ Jane said.

‘It’s the Toreador song from Carmen.’

Jane smiled. ‘Since when were you into opera?’

‘I’m not but my dad is.’

Jane knocked on the door and the singing stopped.

A man in his mid-fifties with shiny grey hair opened the door. He was dressed in a tweed suit, white shirt, and tartan bow tie.

‘Come away in. I was just about to open. Are you delivering for development or collecting photographs?’ he asked cheerily. He had a pleasant Scottish accent.

‘Neither. I assume you are Scott Davies, the owner?’ Jane asked, holding up her warrant card.

‘I am indeed, and have been for nearly thirty years. How can I help you, officer?’

Jane told him she and Boon were investigating the murder of a nun from the convent.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I read the News Shopper. I used to go to the convent every summer and take a photograph of them all. It was such a shame it had to close after that dreadful fire. The sisters were lovely lassies, and the wee ’uns were so well-behaved. It was a lot easier to get them organised for a group photo than it was a bloody wedding party, I can tell you.’

‘We were wondering if you kept copies of the photos you took at the convent,’ Jane asked.

‘Aye, I do, but it’s the negatives I keep as they’re easier to store. Funnily enough, I was looking at them just now.’

‘Why was that?’ Boon asked.

‘To see if any of the sisters looked like the drawing in today’s newspaper.’ Davies picked up the Daily Mail to show them Richard Eaves’ artist’s impression on the front page.

‘Did you spot a likeness?’ Jane asked.

‘Ach, it’s hard to say, as the pictures are no’ very big in the viewer. You can have a wee look yourself if you like, or I can set the projector up so you can see them on a screen.’

‘The screen would be helpful, thanks,’ Jane replied.

‘Give me a wee minute and I’ll set it up in the darkroom,’ Scott said, turning the sign hanging on the door back to CLOSED. ‘Please come on through.’

There was a strong odour of rotten eggs in the darkroom, and Davies could see Boon was feeling nauseous.

‘Sorry about the smells. It’s the chemicals I use for processing.’ He turned on the ventilator fan. ‘I’ve arranged these in the order I took them. The first being in 1953,’ he said, pressing the slide control. The first one was a bit blurry, so he adjusted the focus.

Having seen Julie Dorton’s photograph, Jane and Boon were able to spot Sister Missy right away in the middle of the back row. They also recognised Julie standing next to her. Seeing the large projected image of a smiling Missy when she was eighteen and had just entered the convent as a novice brought a lump to Jane’s throat. She was a picture of innocence and beauty, blissfully unaware of the abusive world she had entered and the fate that would so cruelly befall her.

As Scott flicked through the photographs, Missy was always in the back row next to Julie and Meade was on the far left of the picture — until they came to the 1962 slide.

‘This was the last one I took before the convent closed. The lady on the left of Father Bob looks most like the drawing in the newspaper, compared with the other photos,’ Davies remarked.

‘I agree with you, Mr Davies, there is a similarity,’ Jane said, not wanting to give too much away, though she wondered why it was the only photo where Meade was standing next to Missy.

‘Did you know Father Bob?’ Boon asked.

‘Only through visiting the convent to take the annual photograph. He came to my shop once as well.’

‘Why did he come here?’ Jane asked.

‘He wanted a small copy of the 1962 photo as it was the last picture I took before the convent closed.’

Davies’s comment made Jane look more closely at the projected image. She noticed that Meade and Missy were standing so close together their shoulders and upper arms were touching. She moved nearer and peered at the photo following the position of their arms and hands. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if their hands might have been touching.

‘Seen something of interest, sarge?’ Boon asked.

‘No. I was just trying to see if I could identify Annette Gorman,’ she said casually.

‘Did you know any of the sisters by name, Mr Davies?’ Jane asked.

‘I knew the Mother Superior, but not by name. I only ever really spoke with her or Sister Margaret when I went to the convent.’

‘Do you have any photos of the sisters in casual clothes?’ Boon asked.

‘No. They were always dressed in their habits when I went there.’

‘What about at work or play?’ Jane asked, wondering if there might be an individual close-up of Missy.

‘I did ask if I could take some photographs of their daily life, but the Mother Superior said no. I’ve got some colour ones of the convent gardens, though. I suggested the flower gardens would look nice in a calendar I wanted to make to promote my business. She took me on a guided tour, explaining what all the different flowers and shrubs were. I remember she referred to them as part of her own Garden of Eden.’

‘Sounds like she was a keen gardener,’ Boon remarked.

‘Oh, yes. The gardens were the Mother Superior’s pride and joy. She was a very knowledgeable horticulturalist. Would you like to see the slides?’ Davies asked.

‘We have an appointment on Canvey Island, I’m afraid. Do you have a copy of the calendar I could take with me?’ Jane asked, not wanting to appear dismissive.

Davies looked in a filing cabinet, pulled out the calendar and handed it to Jane.

‘Could I also borrow the 1962 slide? I’d like to get it enlarged by our photographic department.’

‘I can do that for you,’ Davies said.

‘We might need it for evidential purposes in court, so I have to get it done in-house,’ Jane told him.

‘I understand.’ He removed the slide and put it in an envelope.

‘Thanks for your help, Mr Scott,’ she said.

As they walked to the car, Boon could tell something in the last photograph had piqued Jane’s interest.

‘Spill the beans, sarge. What got you excited about that 1962 photo?’

Jane told him what she’d noticed. ‘I want to get their hands enlarged to be sure.’

‘Bloody hell, you’ve got eyes like a hawk!’ he said.

‘Every picture tells a story, Boony,’ Jane smiled.