6
The new building. They still called it that even though the Murder Investigation Team had been here almost a year now. Carrigan made his way past the main station entrance, checking the daily incident logs to make sure he was up to speed with what had transpired overnight, then caught the lift, still bristling from his encounter with Quinn.
The offices were the latest in ergonomic design. Gone were the old yellowed rooms with their institutional fug of microwaved food and stale coffee and in their place were large square spaces, each a replica of the other, fitted with beeping machines and electronic hums that guaranteed you could never get a moment’s peace.
He entered incident room two and saw that Geneva was already there, sitting at a desk near the back, almost invisible in her cubicle, going through a large stack of reports and slugging on a can of Coke.
‘How was it?’ She put the files aside and swivelled her chair towards him. She was wearing a red blouse and a dark skirt, her lower lip swollen from biting down on it, something he’d noticed she did when she was upset.
‘Quick, thank God,’ he replied, and started shifting chairs to the main table where they would hold their daily briefings. ‘The ACC even called me
son
if you can believe that.’
‘Sounds like we may not have you for long,’ she replied. ‘I heard that when he calls you
son
it means you’re on the way up.’
‘I heard the opposite,’ Carrigan smiled and pulled out his briefcase. He extracted a handful of A4 photographs of the scene and started pinning them to the surrounding walls. Behind him he could hear the team coming in, sighs short and frequent, nods and subdued greetings, a studied reluctance in every movement and gesture – everyone knew what was waiting for them courtesy of the non-stop footage broadcast and looped on last night’s news.
‘Thanks for coming in early,’ Carrigan began, wishing he’d nipped out for that coffee now, his voice scratchy from the smoke. ‘As you know, we’re launching an investigation into the fire at 33 St Peter’s Square. We’ll have two daily briefings here as per usual.’ He ignored the moans and scattered comments from the uniformed constables surrounding him. ‘What we know as of this morning is that 33 St Peter’s Square wasn’t an ordinary family home. The building was used as a convent by a small group of nuns . . .’ He looked down at the hastily scribbled notes in front of him. ‘The Sisters of Suffering, apparently. Before you ask, I know as much about nuns and orders as I do about quantum theory, which is precisely nothing. The diocese have confirmed that only ten nuns lived on the premises. Now, as most of you know, St Peter’s Square is not your average street. It’s probably the most exclusive address on our patch. Several lords, a sheik or two and, of course, our own assistant chief constable live there, so we’re going to be treading on some toes, that’s inevitable.’
‘But we have no indication that the fire was deliberate, right?’ DS Karlson was dressed in a tight pinstripe suit, his hair gelled back and his stubble a dark charcoal shadow on his jaw. His shoes were shiny and black with pointed tips and he was tapping one heel impatiently against the leg of his chair.
‘Correct, John, we don’t know that yet.’
‘Isn’t it a bit premature setting up a major investigation before we know all the facts?’
Carrigan bridled at the sergeant’s insolence – he knew how important it was to have someone to challenge his basic assumptions and keep him sharp, but there was something else underlying Karlson’s tone, something he didn’t like.
‘I agree, but it’s not my decision. Seems that ACC Quinn has taken a personal interest in the case. I think his wife helped them out. So, until we know better, we treat this as a murder inquiry. That way we won’t get caught out if it does indeed prove to be intentional. If it’s an accident then we all get to enjoy our Christmas, no harm done.’
‘Except to the nuns.’
Carrigan’s gaze found Geneva busily scribbling away in her notebook. ‘Thank you, Miller, I think we’re all aware of that.’ He looked up at the photos he’d pinned to the walls – burnt doorways and cracked windows, the dark smear patterns of soot and dust. ‘I’m scheduled to meet the fire investigator later today at the scene. He’ll have spent all morning going through the rubble and should be able to tell us whether we’re wasting our time or not. I’m told the house is now more or less stable, the SOCOs have finally gone in and the bodies have been transferred to the morgue.’
He paused, slightly out of breath. ‘It’s Christmas – people get drunk and do things they wouldn’t do any other time of year, they play dares and get careless, so keep that in mind.’ Carrigan looked over at his team and sighed. He knew it was the worst possible time to start a murder inquiry – everyone looking forward to well-earned time off, Christmas all planned and prepped for, and he could see that their minds were elsewhere, little tells of daydream and stary absence. For him it was different. He knew the case would take his mind off the festivities and rush of unwanted memories that always came with them – cuddling in front of black-and-white movies, Louise’s yelp of excitement as she unwrapped the tree, hot slow kisses in the rumpled morning.
He shook the memory free and continued. ‘Cases of arson tend to be either easy to solve or bloody impossible. It’s a crime that wipes out its own traces but, in doing so, it leaves other traces – that said, the snow isn’t going to make it easier for us. Let’s hope the SOCOs got there before too much damage was done.
‘Now, there are normally three motives for arson.’ He pointed to the photos of the smoking wreckage pinned up behind him. ‘One: the perpetrator gets off on it. Two: the fire is used to cover up another crime, usually murder. And three: the arsonist has something against that particular property or institution. So we should be thinking about why anyone would have wanted to burn down the convent. Was it a drunken prank that went badly wrong? An accident? Or is the fire somehow symbolic – did someone want the nuns to burn . . . to burn in hell, even? Remember, this isn’t merely a case of arson we’re investigating – this is murder – someone killed eleven people in that building.’
‘Eleven?’ DC Singh looked up from her files.
Carrigan told them about the eleventh victim, the corpse in the confession booth. ‘There were only supposed to be ten nuns in residence but we have eleven bodies. It’s important we keep this detail out of the press for now. I’ll be seeing the diocese later today so I’ll find out if there was a cook or visitor on the premises, but we should initially focus on this person. It’s significant she wasn’t found with the others.’ He stopped and waited for them to take this in, then turned to face the whiteboard next to him. He began jotting down names and tasks, his handwriting impenetrable as ever. ‘Singh, I want you to see if you can find out whether there’ve been any threats or complaints lodged against the convent in the last couple of years.’
‘Are you thinking hate crime? Or an abused child taking revenge?’ DC Singh flicked back her lock of black hair and Carrigan was again reminded of her quick intelligence and unerring ability to get straight to the point.
‘I’m not thinking anything yet,’ he answered. ‘Let’s see where the evidence leads us first.’ He pointed to the whiteboard. ‘I’ve drawn up an initial wall-chart detailing the positions of the deceased. We need to find out the nuns’ movements and routines – did they always take dinner together? Did they always take it at the same time? Why did they make no move to escape the room?’
He looked across the table at the serious-eyed young man crouched behind a phalanx of humming laptops. ‘Berman, I want you to go through the video footage of the crowd watching the fire. I got one of the uniforms to film it. Arsonists hang around the scene. They get their kicks from watching things burn. If that’s the case then it’s likely our perpetrator’s on tape. We may get lucky.’ He looked at his team, trying to offer them this small comfort as they slowly came to the realisation that this investigation was going to mean disappointed relatives, refunded train tickets, and presents sitting on a shelf come Christmas morning.
‘Jennings, take a couple of uniforms and start door-to-doors. I’ll be joining you later. The snow began falling at six last night. People would have been looking out their windows or sitting on their balconies,’ he continued, remembering the fire party last night. ‘Someone may have seen something, a person running away, anything.’
He turned to his sergeant. ‘Karlson, I want you checking recently released firebugs – Berman, cross-reference what Karlson finds with the video – oh, and Karlson? See if there’s been any similar fires in the area recently.’ He scanned the table once more, satisfied that all bases had been covered for now. ‘I’m sure you’re well aware that all Christmas leave will be cancelled if this turns out to be arson and we’re left holding the bag, clueless.’ He waited for the groans and sighs to subside. ‘The press is watching us carefully. The public is watching and Quinn is watching. So let’s do everything by the book. If things turn out badly at least we can say we followed every possible line of investigation.’ He closed his policy book and looked up. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘every act leaves a mark upon the world – it’s up to us to find those marks and decipher them. And let’s try and not get too carried away. It could be nothing more than a simple accident, a prank gone wrong.’
‘But that’s not what you think, is it?’ Karlson interrupted.
‘If I was a betting man, I’d say cancel your appointments for the next few days,’ Carrigan replied. ‘And I hope you’ve already done your Christmas shopping.’
‘So we’re looking at this as arson?’ one of the uniforms asked.
‘Murder, not just arson. Eleven people died and this in itself makes me suspicious. But it’s not only that. Three things bother me. The fact that the fire started right below where the nuns had just gathered for their evening meal. The fact they didn’t try to escape. The eleventh victim.’
7
‘God, you still stink of smoke,’ Geneva said, rolling down her car window. He noticed she was wearing a new jacket today, one he’d not seen before, and it made her look older and somehow graver.
‘Could say the same about you.’ He pointed to the empty pack of cigarettes on the dash, the gaping ashtray too full to close, and smiled as Geneva turned down Westbourne Grove, heading towards their appointment with the bishop.
‘Manage to get any sleep last night?’ he asked as they stalled in traffic.
‘Barely. Ended up watching some stupid Italian slasher film till I fell asleep on the sofa.’
‘That sounds familiar.’ Carrigan laughed. ‘You ever watch anything apart from horror films?’
‘Used to. Not much any more. I like knowing the way it’s going to unfold. Horror films have a structure and that’s comforting.’ She risked a glance at him. ‘Why? What kind of movies do you like?’
‘Ones I don’t understand.’
‘A film Jack Carrigan doesn’t understand, I’d like to see that.’ Her nails clicked on the steering wheel as she drummed her fingers in frustration while waiting for the lights to change. There was that peculiar look in her eyes he’d noticed before, a rumble of contained energy written in every muscle twitch and eye flicker.
‘What’s bothering you?’
She fumbled for her cigarettes, then gave up. ‘I didn’t want to bring this up in front of the others . . .’
‘But?’ Carrigan said, watching her carefully. ‘C’mon, I know that look . . . you may as well tell me.’
She felt her cheeks flush, embarrassed at having been read so easily yet, at the same time, secretly pleased he’d noticed such a thing. ‘Dare I mention the words
mass suicide
?’ she said and saw his eyebrows arch slightly as he continued staring out at the snow-covered pavements.
‘I very much doubt it,’ Carrigan finally replied.
‘Really?’ she said, her voice dropping slightly. ‘It’s not that uncommon to find enclosed religious sects who believe the end of the world is coming and who kill themselves in preparation for the Rapture. Heaven’s Gate, Jonestown . . . the list goes on and on.’
‘This is an established religious institution, not a cult,’ he said a little too sharply.
‘There’s a difference?’
He scratched his beard and listened to the whip-whap of the windscreen wipers as he considered this. ‘Yes, there is.’ Something had opened up between them in the unsaid words, a space neither realised had existed. ‘And I suppose you have something to back up your theory?’
‘Funnily enough,’ she replied, ‘I do.’
The diocese’s offices were located in a sprawling church deep in the heart of Pimlico. The car park was full, and priests and seminarians walked past them, hunched in conversation and thought, utterly oblivious to the two detectives as they made their way to the front door. Carrigan pressed the buzzer. The door opened revealing a young man dressed in brown monk’s robes and a thick mop of black hair that almost obscured his eyes.
‘Yes?’ His accent was so clipped and rarefied that it only took that one syllable to evoke an entire world of country houses, tweed jackets and private gentlemen’s clubs on Pall Mall.
Carrigan pulled out his warrant card. ‘We have an appointment with Bishop Price.’
The seminarian nodded once, then turned and headed back down the hallway. They followed him through a twisting panelled corridor studded with saints in agony and beatific virgins, photos of monks and priests and politicians lining the walls. They turned a corner and he pointed to a wooden bench beside a large arched door. ‘You can wait there.’
They sat on the bench, the wood cold and unyielding and only six inches deep so that they had to tense their feet against the floor to stay upright like dozing medieval priests perched on their carved misericords. Carrigan stared up at the coffered ceiling and tried to count the angels hiding in its folds.
‘Detective Inspector Carrigan? I believe we have an appointment.’
Carrigan hadn’t noticed the door next to him open and was startled, almost losing his balance on the narrow bench. ‘You’re not Bishop Price,’ he said, quickly gathering himself together as he looked up at the man standing beside him.
‘Quite right . . . which must make you the detective.’ The man offered his hand. ‘Roger Holden. I’m the diocese’s press secretary. I’d be happy to help you with any questions you may have.’
Carrigan stood up and shook his hand, flinching slightly at the unexpected pressure on his fingers and the way Holden looked directly into his eyes as he did this. The man was in his early forties, an expensive haircut framing a bland square face, teeth gleaming white behind fleshy gums. He wore a pink pinstripe shirt that looked as if it had been squeezed out of a tube of toothpaste and he smelled faintly of soap and mint.
‘Our appointment was supposed to be with the bishop.’
Holden smiled apologetically as they entered the office, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He wore a silver ring inset with a small ruby on his little finger and he kept worrying it with his other hand. ‘Unfortunately, the bishop is indisposed right now, but I’ll be happy to provide you with whatever information you may need.’
Holden took his seat behind a large, neatly ordered table, the papers and stationery all squared and aligned. Bookcases lined three of the walls, packed tight with leather-bound volumes, serious and grave in their uniformity. A row of metal filing cabinets stood to the left. A small oval oil painting on the far wall drew Carrigan’s eye. It depicted a group of three unnaturally elongated figures sitting around a campfire and peering fixedly into the flames. The scene was lit from the centre, shadows spreading like black fingers across the canvas, and there was something sinister about the way the shadows fell, as if independent of their origin. It made you want to get closer, to see what the figures were so entranced by. But of course you would never know, that was the point of the painting. Next to it sat framed certificates and more photos of people Carrigan didn’t recognise, handshakes and glossy smiles beaming from each one.
‘A drink?’ They both nodded and Holden cautiously poured some water from a silver jug, careful not to let a single drop land on the table. He took a small white handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to dry the lip of the jug before placing it back on the tray. ‘So, you’re in charge of investigating the fire?’
Carrigan nodded.
‘A terrible thing, terrible,’ Holden replied, folding the handkerchief neatly into four. ‘We’re still trying to come to terms with it. As you can imagine, Bishop Price is most upset.’ He looked up and placed the handkerchief back in his pocket. ‘Now, what can I help you with?’
‘We’d like the personnel files on the nuns so we can start identifying the bodies.’ Carrigan was surprised that Holden hadn’t asked him whether the fire had been deliberate or not – it was almost always the first thing anyone wanted to know in such cases.
‘Of course. That won’t be a problem,’ Holden replied, making a note on a peach-coloured piece of paper.
‘We were also hoping you could give us some information on the convent: what were the nuns like? What kind of activities were they involved in? . . . Anything we can gather may help us in determining why this thing happened.’
Holden smiled and said, ‘I think only God knows the answer to why.’
‘Well, since God’s not going to hand in his findings, we’ll see what we can do.’
Holden turned and stared at Geneva as if surprised to find her there. Carrigan had noticed how he’d studiously been avoiding her until now. Holden took a sip of water, his lips barely touching the glass.
‘You won’t have to look far, then. There are plenty of people who don’t like us. They’ve never liked us, not since the sixteenth century – but of course no one says so. They tolerate us because we keep quiet and because they need our dogma to justify themselves.’
‘What do you mean?’ Geneva asked.
‘Anglicans, the non-believers, the atheists and their ilk, they need us. They need our intransigence over contraception, abortion, euthanasia – they need it to highlight their own normality, how rational their belief system is compared to ours, how far they’ve progressed . . . but religion is not rational nor would we want it to be so. Mystery is the abiding nature of God. Ultimately, our roles are really not so different, Detective Sergeant Miller. We both have a set of rules we follow and we both try to stem the flow of evil in this world.’ He looked at her for affirmation then, finding none, continued. ‘What do you know about monastic orders?’
‘Only what I’ve seen in films,’ Geneva replied, and Carrigan felt a momentary snap of anger towards her but then noticed the look on Holden’s face and kept his mouth shut.
‘There are two main types of order: monastic and mendicant,’ Holden explained. ‘The former spend all their time cloistered and concentrate on prayer, while the latter have a greater emphasis on missionary work. The convent in Bayswater, the Sisters of Suffering, were part of a mendicant order; they were involved in good works and community outreach as well as their prayers and devotions and they subsisted on donations. You say you want to know about the nuns. Well, the convent actually has a very interesting history.’
Carrigan watched silently, letting Holden dictate the pace of the interview, allowing him to slip into comfortable routine and slick patter. He knew it was often when people were at their most relaxed that they gave themselves away.
‘The convent was founded by Constance Bellhew – I don’t suppose you’ve heard of her?’ Holden looked up, saw them shaking their heads and continued. ‘She was the 1910s equivalent of someone like Kate Moss, the girl everybody wanted to know. She presided over weekly salons, wrote several books of poetry, associated with Pound and Woolf, the whole Bloomsbury set. Then the war intervened and she gave it all up and volunteered as a nurse. She spent three hard years in the Dardanelles and at the Western Front and it was among the amputated limbs, shattered minds and unassailable volume of the dead that she found her place. A Catholic by birth, but never before by inclination, she began to read Teresa de Ávila and Julian of Norwich in her tent during the eerie gunless nights, and when the war ended she joined an order of nuns and, a few years after that, took her vows.
‘But she soon sensed that there was something missing from her new life and she kept thinking back to how she’d felt in the trenches among the wounded and dying and realised that a life of contemplation and withdrawal was not for her. A couple of years later, in 1924, she formed the order of the Sisters of Suffering, in a disused building in a rundown part of town full of tenements and bedsits called Notting Hill. She believed that it wasn’t enough to pray to Jesus, one also had to live like Him – to spend your life alleviating the sufferings of the poor. In the years which followed, the Great Depression, the millions standing in bread lines, there was a lot of work to do, and Sister Constance found her calling. She reorganised the convent and set the rules by which they would function, including the rule of ten.’
‘The rule of ten?’ Carrigan interrupted.
‘She believed the number was the perfect balance; that too few nuns would be inefficient in their task and that too many would lead to a dilution of purpose and factional dissent.
‘Unfortunately, Sister Constance died during a Luftwaffe raid in the winter of 1943. The nuns had refused to leave the convent during the Blitz and spent their days ministering to the wounded and newly homeless. After the war, the convent flourished, renewed greatly by Sister Constance’s sacrifice, and was a tremendous boon to the community during the tense and racially divisive years that were to follow. More recently, the convent was headed by Mother Angelica. She’s been the abbess for the past twelve years. In her tenure, the convent greatly expanded its charity works and role in the community, from the battleground schools to the homeless shelters under the Westway. Their focus over the last five years has been predominantly in dealing with the scourge of drugs sweeping through our streets, setting up rehabilitation centres and workshops and organising the community. Indeed, over the past eight years the convent received several commendations from the Vatican for their outreach work.’
‘You know the history of all the orders in your parish in such detail?’
‘No, I prepared myself this morning when the bishop told me you were coming.’
‘So otherwise you had no particular dealings with this convent?’
‘No, Detective Inspector, I did not. What exactly are you implying?’
Carrigan shook his head, ‘Nothing, nothing. Don’t pay any attention to me, I was just thinking out loud.’ He flicked absently through the pages of his notebook. ‘Now, would there have been anyone else in the convent yesterday evening apart from the nuns?’
‘No, of course not,’ Holden replied.
‘You seem very sure of that.’
‘The nuns may have done a lot of outreach work but the convent was their personal space. And there certainly wouldn’t have been anyone there yesterday evening. It was the feast of St John of the Cross, an extremely solemn and private occasion for them.’
Carrigan nodded, thinking about the timing of this. ‘What about a cook or caretaker?’
He caught something in Holden’s expression before the man answered. ‘They cooked their own meals and made their own beds. That was part of Sister Constance’s rule, to ensure they never grew reliant on outside help.’
Carrigan leaned forward and placed his arms squarely on the table. ‘Tell me about the caretaker.’
Holden briefly looked away. ‘How . . . how did you? . . . Never mind.’ He twirled the ring on his finger. ‘It was against the rules but they did employ a part-time caretaker. There were some things that the nuns just couldn’t do by themselves – but it was more an act of charity, I believe. He was one of their strays, one of their countless lost sheep, a wiry little man by the name of Hubbard, Alan Hubbard.’ Holden shrugged. ‘They always had their little pet projects.’
‘Did Hubbard live on the premises?’ Carrigan asked, wondering what it was about the caretaker that made Holden so uneasy.