Unholy Murder

Chapter Seven

There was a slight drizzle of rain falling as Jane knocked on the door of the old Victorian presbytery, tucked round the back of St Mary’s Church. The paint on the timber sash window ledges was peeling away and in need of repair, as was the slate roof which was missing a few tiles and covered in moss.

As she waited, Jane knew she should have asked Stanley’s permission to tell Father Chris about the murdered nun, and he probably would have told her to wait and see what Barnes had to say. But as she’d told Father Chris she would update him after the coffin was opened, Jane felt it only right that she did it personally.

Thirty seconds passed and there was no answer. Jane wondered if he was out and knocked again a little louder. She was about to leave when the door opened a bit and Father Chris stuck his head round. Jane could see his hair was dripping wet.

He seemed surprised to see her. ‘Detective Tennison. Please excuse the state of me... I was just having a shower.’

‘No need to apologise, Father. I should have phoned ahead to let you know I was coming.’

‘Is it about the coffin?’

‘Yes, but I can call back tomorrow.’

‘No, please come in. Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll be right with you. The living room is first on the left,’ he said.

The door creaked open, allowing Jane to see Father Chris holding a thigh-length towel round his slim waist. He had broad shoulders with muscular arms and his calf muscles flexed as he briskly climbed the stairs two at a time. When he got to the top, he started to remove the towel and Jane smiled to herself as she glimpsed the cheeks of his backside.

The small living room was tidy, but sparsely furnished, with two shabby grey armchairs, a side cabinet, and an old oak writing desk with matching chair by the window. The green-painted plaster walls had numerous cracks and the carpet was threadbare in some places. The smoke from the log fire gave off a nice woody smell, reminding Jane of her family home when she was a child. She was surprised that the only religious objects in the room were a wooden crucifix above the fireplace and a large bible on the writing desk.

She also noticed there was no television. A transistor radio was on the side cabinet, alongside some framed photographs, which Jane presumed were of Father Chris’s parents. She noticed a picture of him suspended in mid-air, in a hitch kick position, about to land in a long-jump pit. He looked to be in his early twenties, and she could see a large, terraced stadium in the background, filled with spectators.

‘Would you like a coffee or tea?’ he asked as he entered the room wearing a grey tracksuit and flip-flops.

‘I’m fine, thanks. I see from the photograph you were a long jumper.’

‘That was actually the last competition I jumped in.’

‘Where was it?’

‘Meadowbank Stadium, 1970. I represented Malta.’

The place and year rang a bell with Jane. ‘You were in the Edinburgh Commonwealth Games?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t win a medal. In fact, I was second to last.’

‘It’s still a fantastic achievement to have represented your country in such a prestigious event. Your family must have been very proud of you,’ Jane said.

‘My parents were there. The whole thing was an experience I’ll never forget.’

‘How old were you then?’

‘Twenty-one. I became a priest shortly after, so that was the end of my long-jumping career.’

‘You obviously still keep yourself fit,’ she said, recalling the site of his semi-naked body.

‘I try to run three or four times a week or go to the Walnuts Leisure Centre.’

‘Where’s that?’ she asked.

‘Just near Orpington police station. There’s a 33-metre swimming pool and gym.’

‘I’ve only recently moved to Chislehurst and haven’t been to Orpington yet. I’ll have to check it out sometime as I like to try and keep fit.’

He removed the fireguard and put some more logs on the fire. ‘Let me take your coat.’

Jane removed her coat and handed it to him.

‘Please, take a seat,’ he said, then hung her coat in the hallway. He sat down in the other armchair. ‘What was the outcome with the coffin?’

‘There was a female body inside dressed in nun’s clothing.’

‘That’s sad. Do you know her name?’

‘At the moment we have no idea who she is or when she died. Does the diocese keep records of all the nuns who lived and worked at the convent?’

‘I’m not certain, but I would think so. I had to give them my details and next of kin should anything happen to me. I suspect the convent would have kept their own records as well. They would have been passed on to the diocesan archives when the convent closed.’

‘Where are the archives kept?’

‘Archbishop’s House in Southwark. I’m sure the diocese will arrange for her to be reburied in a cemetery.’

‘I was wondering if you’d informed the bishop about the coffin?’

‘No. I was waiting to hear back from you first. I’ll call him now.’ He walked towards the phone on the writing desk.

‘This may sound odd,’ Jane said, ‘but I’d be grateful if you didn’t just now.’

He turned back to her with a puzzled look. ‘Why?’

Jane realised she’d dug a bit of a hole for herself. ‘I shouldn’t really be here discussing the investigation. My senior officers won’t be very pleased with me if they find out.’

He frowned. ‘And I’m afraid Bishop Meade will be angry with me if he finds out I didn’t tell him.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be able to tell you tomorrow. Look, I’d better go...’

‘This is putting me in an awkward position as well,’ he said. ‘Is there more to the nun’s death than you’re telling me?’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t say at the moment,’ Jane said.

‘Trust works both ways, detective,’ he said with a meaningful look.

Jane sighed, but felt she had no other option than to trust him. ‘The post-mortem revealed she was murdered.’

‘Murdered? Bloody hell! How was she killed?’ he asked, clearly stunned. ‘I’m sorry, I apologise for swearing.’

‘Tragically, she must have suffered a slow, agonising death,’ Jane said before telling him about the examination of the coffin and the post-mortem findings.

Using his right hand, Father Chris traced the sign of the cross.

‘In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sanсti. Amen.’ He held his hands together, eyes closed in silent prayer for a few seconds before looking up at Jane with a sorrowful expression. ‘It saddens me when I hear what human beings are capable of doing to each other.’

Jane was moved by his words. ‘If whoever killed her is still alive, I’m determined to find them.’

‘I hope you do.’

‘We also think a builder on the site forced open the coffin and stole a crucifix from the nun’s neck. The outline of a cross and chain was on her clothing.’

He shook his head in disgust. ‘That’s sickening. But you do realise a crucifix and a cross are not necessarily the same thing.’

‘Really?’

‘A crucifix is a cross with Jesus depicted or engraved on it. A cross is just a plain cross, though a nun’s cross often has the Sacred Heart of Jesus engraved on it.’

‘Is it the same as a normal heart shape?’

‘Pretty much. The symbol represents Jesus’ love for all humanity. It can be depicted in different ways. The most common is a heart with a circle of thorns, which represents the crown of thorns placed on Jesus’ head. There may also be a cross on top of the heart, which represents the crucifixion.’

Jane nodded. ‘That’s useful to know when we search the builder’s premises.’

‘I spoke with my housekeeper after you left this morning,’ Father Chris said. ‘I didn’t mention the unearthed coffin but asked her about the convent. She said it was an orphanage with about twenty or thirty children living there. Apparently, there was a fire and the convent closed, but she couldn’t remember exactly when.’

‘The building site manager mentioned there was a school which burned down before the convent closed. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning with my detective chief superintendent. I don’t know what course of action he will take — or if I’ll still be involved in the investigation. He may even contact the bishop himself. So I’d be grateful if you could keep this conversation between the two of us.’

‘Of course. The last thing I want to do is get you into trouble. I appreciate your honesty, and I’m still happy to help in any way I can.’

Jane gave him a relieved smile. ‘I could do with your help to identify the nun.’

He nodded. ‘Will you call me after you’ve spoken with your chief superintendent?’

‘Yes. I’ll only tell him about your offer of assistance. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it as well.’

‘Thank you for confiding in me. Is there anything you need from me just now?’

‘There’s a million questions I’d like to ask you about nuns and the Catholic Church, but they can wait until tomorrow.’ She looked at her watch. It was half past seven. ‘I’d best get off home. I’ve a lengthy report to type up.’

‘Have you had supper yet?’ he asked.

His question surprised her. ‘I was going to get a takeaway on the way home, actually.’

‘I’ve some soppa tal-armla simmering on the stove. It should be just about ready and there’s plenty for two.’

She was in two minds. Staying a little longer would give her the opportunity to discuss the case a bit more, but it would also mean a late night typing her report. She didn’t want to appear rude by declining his offer, although she didn’t have a clue what he was cooking.

‘I don’t want to put you to any bother,’ she said in the end.

‘It’s no bother at all. I’ve a small table in the kitchen where we can eat. Please, after you,’ he said, ushering her through the living-room door before him.

The small kitchen was antiquated, with Thirties-style green cupboards, a stone floor and an old gas stove, which reminded Jane of the one her grandmother had. A Raleigh drop-handle racing bike was resting upside down against the kitchen table, with one wheel on the floor next to it.

‘Excuse the bike. I got a puncture this afternoon. I need to repair it so I can get out and about tomorrow.’ He opened the back door and put the bike and wheel outside.

‘You don’t have a car?’

‘My vows of poverty mean I can’t have one. The bike keeps me fit; though I must admit I dislike riding in the rain.’

A pot was simmering on the stove, giving off a mouth-watering aroma which instantly made Jane feel hungry.

‘It smells delicious. What did you say it was called?’

‘Soppa tal-armla. It’s a popular Maltese winter soup made with vegetables, potatoes and tomatoes. I just need to add some cubes of goat’s cheese for a few minutes, then it’s ready to eat.’

‘Does tal-armla mean vegetables in Maltese?’

He started stirring the soup with a large wooden spoon. ‘The literal translation is “of the widow”, thus it’s commonly known as widow’s soup. The name originates from the medieval practice of gifting penniless, widowed women with vegetables and other available produce, which they would use to make filling soups.’

‘I can’t wait to try it, Father.’

‘Please call me Chris,’ he smiled.

‘Well, seeing as we are both technically off duty, you must call me Jane.’

He placed two wicker table mats, side plates, cutlery, and napkins neatly down on the small table, then pulled out a chair. ‘Please, take a seat.’ He gently slid it back in as Jane sat down, then unfolded a napkin and handed it to her.

‘Would you like a glass of red wine with your soup? It’s a Chianti,’ he said, holding up the bottle.

‘Only if you’re having one.’

Chris poured two glasses and handed one to Jane. ‘Cheers,’ she said, raising her glass.

He smiled. ‘Cheers. Here’s to a successful outcome to your investigation.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Jane replied, taking a sip of wine.

‘I made some Maltese sourdough bread earlier. Would you like some with your soup?’

She nodded. ‘You obviously like cooking.’

‘I used to help my mother in the kitchen when I was young. I find cooking relaxing, though it’s generally just meals for myself. Having company is a pleasant change.’

He cut four slices of bread on a wooden chopping board which he then placed on the table. He ladled some soup into two bowls, sprinkled some chopped parsley on top, then put the bowls on the wicker mats before sitting down.

‘It can be served with a poached egg on top, but I used my last two for breakfast, I’m afraid.’

‘It looks delicious as it is,’ Jane said, picking up her spoon. She noticed Chris had bowed his head, with his palms pressed together. On impulse, she followed suit.

‘Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘Help yourself to some bread, Jane. I like to dunk it in the soup,’ he said, picking up a spoon and fork.

Although the soup looked appetising, she noticed it had cauliflower florets in it, a vegetable she had never liked. Using her fork to cut a small bit off she scooped it up in her spoon with some of the soup. Her opinion of cauliflower was instantly transformed as the flavour enveloped her taste buds. Next, she tried a bit of the cheese, which literally melted in her mouth. She dipped her bread in the soup, took a bite, and raised her wine glass.

‘My compliments, Chef Chris. I can honestly say I’ve never tasted a soup like this. It’s absolutely delicious.’

Chris raised his glass with a smile. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘Without a name for our victim, finding out what happened to all the nuns living at the convent over a hundred years is going to be a massive task. My intention is to work backwards in ten-year periods from the day the convent closed.’

‘Some of the nuns will still be alive,’ he pointed out. ‘They may be working in other convents or parishes.’

‘They shouldn’t be hard to trace, then.’

‘There is one problem you may encounter, though.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Which is...?’

‘In some convents, nuns change their names to reflect the change that has happened in their lives. Sometimes they can suggest a new name, but it’s often up to the Mother Superior to decide on it.’

Jane sighed. ‘That could make things a lot more complicated.’

‘It might be worth trying to locate the last Mother Superior. The diocese should know where she is.’

Jane nodded, swallowing a mouthful of soup. ‘What about the orphan children who lived in the convent? Will there be a record of them?’

‘I’d imagine so, and Bromley Council may have a record as well. Would you like some more wine?’ he asked, lifting the bottle.

She picked up her glass. ‘Just a drop, thank you.’

He topped up both their glasses and offered Jane another slice of bread.

‘It’s just a thought,’ she said, ‘but is there a specific religious shop where nuns and priests get their clothing?’

‘There is for us. I’m not sure about nuns. Why do you ask?’

‘I didn’t check the habit at the mortuary. A maker’s label might help identify a period when it was made and narrow the timeline of our victim’s death. I’ll get our forensic guy to take a look.’

‘That’s clever thinking.’

‘Not really. It’s something I picked up from an experienced colleague on a previous case. I should have thought to do it at the mortuary.’

He admired her modesty. ‘It must be hard to concentrate after such a gruesome discovery.’

‘You kind of get used to it, but I’d be lying if I said it’s never upsetting — not so much at the time, as you’ve a lot to think about, but later, when you are off duty. Dealing with grieving families is hard, but you have to be strong for their sake. It must be the same for you.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, it is, especially when it’s children or babies who have died. I was wondering... would it be possible for me to visit the deceased nun in the mortuary and say a prayer for her?’

‘Certainly. Under the circumstances that would seem to be very appropriate. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Yes. After one would be best.’

‘I’ll pick you up at around quarter past one,’ she said, knowing he didn’t have a car.

‘There’s no need to put yourself out. If you give me the address, I’ll cycle there.’

‘It’s no bother. I can let you know how my meeting went on the way to the mortuary.’

Jane savoured her last spoonful of soup and put the spoon in the bowl. ‘That was pure heaven.’

‘I doubt the angels make it as good as my mother did,’ he joked, and Jane laughed. ‘Would you like some more?’

‘I’m full, thanks,’ she said, patting her stomach.

‘Would you like some more wine... or a coffee?

Jane said a coffee with milk would be fine. Chris filled a kettle, put it on the hob and spooned some instant coffee into a cup.

‘Would you like to try some kwarezimal with your coffee?’ he asked, picking up a round cake tin from the work surface and removing the lid. He put the tin on the table.

‘Did you make these as well?’ Jane asked, admiring the inch-thick, oval-shaped, chocolate-coloured biscuits.

‘Yes. Basically, they’re made with orange water, cocoa, ground almonds and spices, then coated with honey and almond slivers. They’re best straight out of the oven, but I can warm some up for you.’

‘No need. They look delicious.’ She picked one up and took a bite.

‘These are to die for as well. What are they called again?’

‘Kwarezimal. It’s a traditional Maltese Lenten food, which derives its name from the Latin word Quaresima, meaning the forty days of Lent. During Lent, adult Catholics abstain from eating meat and often had these instead. They’re quite fattening, but I love them... naughty but nice,’ he said, picking one up and biting into it.

The kettle started whistling. Chris made Jane a coffee, emptied what was left of the wine into his glass and offered her another kwarezimal.

‘If I eat any more, I’ll burst. But I’d love to know the recipe for the widow’s soup.’

He opened a drawer and removed a worn leather-bound notebook with an elastic band around it. ‘My mother kept all her recipes in this book. Cooking Maltese food reminds me of my parents and my old life in Malta.’ He removed the elastic band and handed the book to Jane.

She noticed some old burn marks on the back, which made it look as if it had been dropped on a stove at some point. ‘Do your parents still live in Malta?’

‘Sadly, they’re both dead now.’

She realised they must have died quite young if Chris was in his early thirties. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wondering if he had any brothers or sisters but didn’t want to ask.

‘I miss them, but they are still with me in spirit... and never more so than when I’m cooking something from my mother’s recipe book.’ He smiled. ‘What about your family?’

‘My parents live in London, and so does my sister.’

‘Is she also in the police?’

Jane laughed. ‘No, she’s a hairdresser. She’s married with two young children.’

‘Does she do your hair?’

‘Yes. I’m due to see her for a trim next week, though it may depend on how this case works out.’

‘She’s obviously very good. I’ll swap her details for the soup recipe.’

Jane laughed. ‘Deal... though I better check with her first as she doesn’t usually cut men’s hair — apart from my father’s and her husband’s.’ She opened the recipe book. It hadn’t crossed her mind that all the recipes would be written in Maltese. ‘I think I’ll need you to translate again,’ she said, handing him the book.

Chris read out the ingredients and the method for making the soup and Jane wrote it down in the back of her notebook. He asked if she’d like the recipe for the kwarezimal biscuits as well.

She smiled. ‘I think they may be beyond my cooking abilities.’

Chris closed the recipe book, put the rubber band around it, then gently kissed it and made the sign of the cross.

Jane looked at her watch. ‘I really must be going, or I’ll never get my report done by tomorrow morning. Would you like a hand with the washing up?’

He stood up. ‘No, it’s fine. My housekeeper will do them in the morning. She actually gets annoyed if I do the dishes — or cleaning of any sort.’

Jane laughed. ‘Thanks for a lovely meal.’

‘My pleasure. Thanks for the company.’

‘Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘I hope your meeting goes well. It would be a great shame if someone as determined as you wasn’t allowed to continue the investigation.’

In the hallway, Chris helped Jane on with her coat and opened the front door — then he asked her to hold on for a second and nipped back to the kitchen, returning with the biscuit tin.

‘Please, take these.’

‘Are you sure?’

He nodded. ‘I can easily make some more.’

‘Thank you. Goodnight, Chris.’

‘Goodnight, Jane,’ he replied, closing the door.

Chris went to the living room, turned on the radio and sat in the armchair to listen to the evening news. After a couple of minutes, he got up, turned off the radio, then picked up the phone and dialled a number.

It was quickly answered. ‘Bishop Meade speaking, how can I help you?’

‘Good evening, Bishop. It’s Father Floridia. I’ve just rung to tell you a coffin was uncovered today in the grounds of the old St Mary’s Convent...’