up a bit’. Dreading to think what this entails, Judy sits down to wait in the reception area, beside a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary, eyes rolling ecstatically up to heaven.
‘Good morning, Miss Johnson.’ It is the Sister, all starched veil and professional kindness.
‘Detective Constable Johnson,’ says Judy.
‘I beg your pardon.’ Titles are important, thinks Judy. The Sister would lose all her authority if addressed as Miss Whatever, would become just another middle-aged woman in a funny outfit. But as Sister Mary of the Sacred Heart she has power, albeit of a rather specialised kind.
‘Sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder… could you tell me… what is wrong with Sister Immaculata?’
‘Wrong?’ The Sister raises her eyebrows. ‘She has cancer, Detective Constable Johnson. Inoperable. She has months, maybe weeks, to live.’
This time, Judy interviews Sister Immaculata in a conservatory overlooking a windswept rock garden. The nun is perceptibly weaker, her breath rattling in her chest, her hands shaking. Only her eyes remain alert – they regard Judy with suspicion, even, perhaps, fear.
‘Detective Constable Judy Johnson,’ Judy introduces herself. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘Of course I do. I’m not daft, you know.’ Judy is rather relieved to hear the aggression in the old woman’s voice. It will make her task easier.
‘Sister Immaculata, your real name is Orla McKinley. Is that right?’
A pause. ‘Depends what you mean by “real”.’
‘Your baptismal name.’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘In 1951 you were living with the Spens family on Woolmarket Street.’
Another, longer pause. Sister Immaculata twists the ever-present rosary tightly around her hand. In the rock garden two seagulls fight over a crust of bread.
‘I was working there as a nanny,’ Sister Immaculata says at last.
‘Annabelle Spens’ nanny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Annabelle died in 1952, didn’t she?’
Sister Immaculata looks at her but says nothing. The rosary beads are still.
‘Did you stay on after Annabelle died?’
‘Yes. They were kind. They let me stay.’
‘Did you look after Roderick?’
‘Roderick was fourteen. Hardly a child.’
‘Sister Immaculata…’ Judy leans forward. She knows everything depends on getting this old, dying woman to speak to her. She puts all her persuasive powers into her next words, even offering up a prayer for good measure. Please God, let her tell me the truth. ‘Sister Immaculata, we found a little girl’s body buried under the front door. I need you to tell me, is there any way that the body could be Annabelle’s? Please. It’s very important.’
At first she thinks that she has failed. Sister Immaculata says nothing and the rosary beads start to move between her fingers. But then, with a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob, the words start to pour out.
‘It was wrong. It was evil. I knew that but I loved him, you see. Strange what a poor excuse that sounds, but I loved him. At the time, that was everything. I covered up for him. I knew it was a sin. A black sin. I’ve tried to atone but the sin catches you up in the end.’
‘Sister,’ Judy presses her hand, ‘what sin? What did you cover up?’
Sister Immaculata looks at her and now her eyes are awash with tears. ‘He killed her,’ she says, ‘and I covered up for him.’
Nelson is not having a good day. His computer has gone Trappist again, Clough has disappeared for a late breakfast or early lunch and Tanya is nowhere to be seen. He wishes Judy were here. She has one outstandingly good quality as a police officer – she is always where you want her to be. Except now, of course, when she’s in bloody Southport. As a child, Nelson once spent a holiday in Southport. Long, wet walks along the seafront, a B and B where you got one slice of toast for breakfast and weren’t allowed to touch any of the thousands of knick-knacks grinning evilly from the shelves. Never again.
He’s also tired. He didn’t leave Ruth’s until past midnight. She’d seemed all right, shaken obviously but still feisty. It’s one of the things he really likes about Ruth. She’s tough. Some people would have been hysterical last night because, let’s face it, someone had come right up to her house, intending to kidnap her, assault her or worse. But Ruth had been her usual, defiant self. She’d been quite acerbic when Tanya had (tactlessly) suggested that she was upset. Tanya is never in a million years going to understand someone like Ruth Galloway. He’s not sure he understands her either but he does admire her. Admire her? queries a weaselly voice in his head. Is that all? Nelson stamps firmly on any thoughts about his feelings for Ruth. He’s already had to put up with the sight of Michelle sorting out piles of Rebecca’s old baby things to give to Ruth. He doesn’t need any more complications, thank you very much.
‘Sir?’
Tanya’s head appears around his office door. He tries to discourage the rest of her from joining it.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve found Annabelle Spens’ dental records.’
This is different. His tiredness vanishes and rearranges his face into something more welcoming.
‘Good work, Tanya. Show me.’
Praise makes Tanya expansive. ‘Well, it was really you saying about there being some fancy dental work done. I thought, maybe they didn’t get it done locally. So I contacted the London School of Dentistry. They’ve been around since 1911, used to be at the London Hospital but it’s now part of St Bartholomew’s. Anyway, they had her records. They faxed them over a few minutes ago.’
She pauses for praise but Nelson just holds out his hand for the records. He scans the pages, frowning, then looks up.
‘It’s not her.’
‘What?’
‘Did you look at the records?’
‘No… I just brought them straight to you.’
‘Well, you remember our skull has a filling. Unusual in such a young child. According to this, Annabelle Spens didn’t have a filling in her head.’
Ruth is on her way to meet Cathbad. He rang yesterday and suggested meeting at the Roman site and having lunch at the Phoenix. Now, Ruth considers that Cathbad will provide the perfect antidote to the darkness of the last few days. Cathbad may talk about being open to the ‘dark side’ but there is, in fact, something curiously comforting about him. Also Max has told her that they have unearthed a carving which could be a ‘Janus Stone’, a depiction of the old two-faced God himself. She looks forward to introducing Cathbad to Janus.
Ruth drives fast, listening to one of her more cheerful Bruce Springsteen tapes. None of that ‘Badlands’ stuff, the highway travelling to nowhere, the dead-end towns with no jobs ‘on account of the economy’. This is the ‘Dancing in the Dark’ years, unsubtle guitar riffs and souring sax solos. Ruth is tired (she didn’t get to bed until one and then hardly slept) but she is happy that the thought of a genuine Roman find can lift her spirits and help her forget that someone is trying to kill her.
Well, not forget exactly, she looks about her as she gets out of the car and she jumps when a skylark rises vertically out of the undergrowth, its song spiralling into the sky. She also keeps one hand on her mobile phone. Nelson is on speed dial – the first sign of anything lurking in the bushes and she’ll be onto him. But, in the daylight, it’s hard to believe in murdered children, sacrificial offerings or the cult of the witch-goddess.
It starts to rain as she climbs the grass bank; fine, warm rain that is refreshing rather than otherwise. The site is deserted, the trenches neatly covered with tarpaulins. There is no sign of Cathbad. Max had said that she would
