From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Given that meditation was supposed to produce a sense of calm and well-being, an observer would have to conclude that Tony Hill hadn’t quite got the hang of it. At the end of his first fifteen-minute broadcast, he’d looked more like a man who’d just been for a run. Uphill and into a strong wind. His face had been red, his body perspiring and his hands clenched into fists. He’d hoped his listeners had achieved a greater level of inner harmony. Otherwise he’d probably not have a second chance behind the mic.
He’d peeled the headphones off as Razor Wireless segued into a pre-recorded preview of the weekend’s football. He’d leaned back in the chair and exhaled, rolling his head and feeling the crepitation in his neck. Then he’d jumped to his feet, trying to look like a man on top of his game and given a thumbs-up to Spoony on the other side of the glass. Spoony’s face had been impassive and he’d turned away to fiddle with the faders on his deck. Nervous, Tony had emerged from the booth and grinned at Tweedledum and Tweedledummer. ‘All right?’ he’d said.
Spoony had glanced across at him. ‘Never heard anything like it. Quite fucking remarkable.’ No clue in his tone as to whether that was a good or a bad thing.
‘I suppose it’s hard to tell, when you’re working in here rather than listening to it in your cell. I guess I’ll just have to wait for feedback from the listeners, eh?’ Tony had known he was gabbling but he couldn’t stop himself.
Spoony’s mouth had twisted in a one-sided grin. ‘You’ll get feedback, all right. Same time next week, then? Unless we get overwhelmed with negative criticism, obviously.’
Tony could still remember how embarrassed he’d been at the level of relief he felt. He hadn’t been that desperate for approval since he’d been trying to impress his PhD supervisor with the innovative brilliance of his thinking.
‘Load of bollocks, mind,’ Tweedledum had muttered as Tony left to walk back down the block to his cell.
He had a feeling he was going to hear that again before the day was out. But he made it back to his wing that first time without encountering anyone eager to share their response. Or maybe they just didn’t know who he was. He’d almost reached the sanctuary of his cell when Kieran came bounding up to him. ‘That was all right,’ he said, giving Tony a friendly punch to the shoulder. ‘Never done nothing like that before and I got no idea if I was doing it right, and I did feel a bit of a divvie, but I can see there might be something in it.’
‘Thanks. I felt a bit like I was walking out on a high wire. I hope everybody’s as chilled about it as you are.’
‘I doubt it, mate. You’ll probably get the piss taken out of you something chronic, but I don’t think anybody’s going to deck you over it.’
That had been months ago. Now Tony arrived at his cell to find Kieran leaning against the door jamb. From his back pocket, he pulled a tightly folded newspaper. He’d somehow acquired a friendly prison officer who passed him a paper every couple of days. It was never that morning’s edition, and it was only ever a tabloid, but it was a slender line of connection to the outside world. Kieran tossed it over to him. Caught by surprise, Tony nearly fumbled it but managed a comedy save. Since he’d joined the Razor Wireless community, Tony had earned the right to share this bounty.
‘Page four,’ Kieran said. ‘Right up your street, I would have thought.’
He waited while Tony found the page and read the story of human remains found in the grounds of a convent on the outskirts of Bradfield. He vaguely remembered Bradesden. Part of the canal network ran across the edge of the village and he’d cruised down there one summer’s afternoon in Steeler with Paula, Elinor and Torin. They’d had a picnic in a charming little basin a mile or so further down then returned to his mooring in Minster Basin. In his mind’s eye, he summoned up a straggle of low cottages and a square church tower. Nothing that resembled a convent, though.
Up to forty sets of bones, apparently. They’d literally start with a head count, he thought. Skulls were unmistakable; everybody had one and only one. He imagined they’d turn out to be historic, the relics of some Victorian outbreak of cholera or typhoid. There would be a fuss for a few days then it would all be consigned to the dustbin of history. No grieving relatives to put pressure on for a full investigation.
It was the kind of thing Carol would have taken a quick sideways look at then passed along to a regular CID unit. Look away now, nothing to see here.
‘What about them nuns, then?’ Kieran could contain himself no longer. ‘You think they were all at it, or was it just one mad serial killer nun? Stalking the convent like a homicidal penguin?’
‘I think it’s more likely that it was something like Spanish flu. The article suggests the bodies were children, and if I remember right, it was the young who were most susceptible to that.’
‘Flu? What, like my nan gets a jab for every winter?’
‘It killed somewhere around a hundred million people right after the First World War. So if this place was a children’s home then, it’d make sense.’
‘Aw,’ Kieran groaned. ‘There was me thinking we could have a juicy little programme on the Razor, you doing your very own Mind of a Murderer about the killer nun of Bradesden.’ He put on a spooky voice. ‘Death stalked the aisles of a Northern nunnery, not caring where he struck with his scythe. The instrument of death? A bride of Christ who turned into the Bride of Frankenstein.’
Tony couldn’t help laughing. ‘Is that what you
