‘Or else they’re so messed up by what happened in that convent that they’re not going to be very reliable witnesses,’ Steve added gloomily.
‘Well, we’ll just have to get past those obstacles. We need strong witness statements, we need strong forensic evidence. Steve, go and talk to the neighbours. Somebody must have seen something. There must have been gossip in the local pub.’
Sophie cleared her throat. ‘We should probably talk to the groundsman,’ she said. ‘That’s his vegetable patch.’
There was a moment of stunned silence. ‘There’s a groundsman?’ Rutherford stuttered.
‘Yes. He lives in a cottage at the back of the convent. He told me it’s his own place, he bought it from the church. And he leases the land to grow vegetables.’
‘He told you? You mean, you’ve spoken to him?’
‘Yes, only briefly, though.’
Rutherford spoke low and slow, emphasising every word. ‘You spoke to the groundsman of a site where forty skeletons have been found and you didn’t think to bring him in for formal questioning?’
Sophie flushed. ‘I was told DCI Fielding’s people had already spoken to him.’
‘And have you found a statement from him in your incident room files?’
‘I haven’t seen anything.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Rutherford exploded. ‘Paula, get your arse over there right away and take a witness statement from this—what’s his name?’
Sophie looked at her tablet. ‘Jerome Martinu.’
‘And if you think he needs bringing in, bring him in.’ Rutherford shook his head. ‘We’re supposed to be the elite,’ he said bitterly. ‘DCI Fielding’s going to have a field day with this.’
‘With all due respect, sir, shouldn’t her team have interviewed this Martinu guy? And if they have and it’s not in the system, it’s not Sophie’s fault.’ Paula’s attempt at conciliation didn’t get her very far.
‘When you get out there, check with Fielding if there’s already an interview. And if there is, where the fuck is it? Then do your own, because I don’t want to rely on Fielding’s shower for such a crucial interview. Got it?’
Paula gave him a level stare. ‘Sir.’
‘Did you record your interview with this woman? What’s her name, by the way?’ He grabbed a marker pen and stood poised at the whiteboard.
‘Louise Brand. I recorded the interview and pinged the recording across to the incident room for transcription.’ Because I am not a fuckwit.
‘Good. Have we got a name for the resident priest at the convent yet?’
‘I’ve just filed it with the incident room. He’s currently a parish priest in Sheffield,’ Stacey said. All this and a meeting with Carol Jordan? Her friend had been working like a woman possessed, Paula thought.
‘Nice work, Chen. Karim, off you go to Sheffield. DI McIntyre, why are you still here?’
Really? Was this how it was going to be? Rutherford had been watching too many ancient TV cop shows, Paula decided. Sooner rather than later, she’d be injecting a bit of Prime Suspect into the mix. But in the meantime, she needed to forge an alliance.
29
Years ago, I had a conversation with an actor who maintained, ‘Once you can fake sincerity, you can achieve anything.’ Even when I had no respect for the people I was dealing with, it was important to behave as if I did.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Imran Hussein had a favourite line whenever he was introducing his policeman brother. ‘This is Karim. You have to hope he’s a more observant copper than he is a Muslim.’ The rest of his family tutted at Imran, but Karim was pretty sure that deep down they agreed with him and that it grieved his father in particular. But he didn’t believe in the performance of faith for its own sake. His beliefs were his own business, no matter what cajoling, bribery or bullying his father tried in order to get him to Friday prayers.
So when it came to interviewing a priest, he wasn’t going to be in awe of the man’s position or his devoutness. This was the twenty-first century, after all. Father Michael Keenan would be just another witness. At least he wasn’t one of those nuns that Karim feared would be like a massed phalanx of aunties judging him.
But the woman who opened the door of the priest’s grey stone house made Karim feel like he’d stepped back a hundred years. She could have been any age between fifty and seventy. Her greying hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her severe glasses made her eyes shrink to black buttons and her mouth was an unsympathetic line. She wore a floral tabard over a nondescript black dress, the fingers of a pair of rubber gloves poking out of the pouch pocket on the front. She frowned. ‘Yes?’ It was as if her words were rationed and she wasn’t going to waste them on him.
‘I’d like to see Father Keenan,’ Karim said. ‘Father Michael Keenan.’ She remained impassive. He took out his ID and held it out. ‘I’m DC Karim Hussein. From the Regional Major Incident Team.’
‘He’s busy.’ She went to close the door. ‘You’ll have to make an appointment.’
Karim put a hand on the door. ‘That’s not how it works. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell Father Keenan I’m here and that I would like to see him now.’
‘He’s a very busy man.’
Karim smiled. ‘So am I. And I’ve come all the way from Bradfield to talk to him, so I’d be grateful if you’d go and fetch him.’
At ‘Bradfield’, her face had changed. Karim couldn’t say how or why, just that he’d seen a fleeting shift in her tight features. ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I need to close the door to keep the heat in.’
He dropped his hand and stood staring at the highly polished brass knocker. A couple of minutes went by. He listened to the cars and buses passing in the road behind him. He wondered whether the encounter would have gone quite so badly if it had been Steve Nisbet on the step.
Karim was on the point of
