Not even his years of training and experience could keep Cohen from looking startled. His eyes widened and his pen stopped mid-word on his pad. ‘I need a word with my client,’ he gabbled.
They went through the rigmarole of turning off the recording, then Paula and Steve left the room. ‘You think I didn’t push him hard enough, don’t you?’ Paula leaned against the wall, longing for a cigarette. This was when the old cravings hit hardest. Mostly she didn’t miss smoking, though she could tell anyone who was interested when it was she’d smoked her last cigarette, down to the day and the hour. But in an interview, when she was trying to get the better of someone who didn’t want to give something up, that was when she longed for the business of lighting up, drawing hard and deep and feeling that glorious buzz.
‘I’d have gone in harder,’ Steve said.
‘We can’t afford to be that bothered about the nuns, even though they were clearly a bunch of sadistic heartless bitches. We’ll never get a cause of death on those kids. We’ll be lucky to get assault charges on what happened to those poor bloody girls. I don’t see the CPS pursuing conspiracy to prevent a lawful and decent burial. It’s not something they’d relish taking through the courts. It’s complicated and difficult and you can bet the nuns will all be hiding behind each other. It’s not like these girls have got families screaming for justice. But the bodies in the raised beds? That’s a different story. Sophie texted me earlier to say the victims have got plastic bags taped over their heads. That’s murder right there. And that’s what we’re going to hit him with as soon as the suit calls us back in.’
‘I still think—’
But whatever Steve thought was lost as the lawyer’s head appeared at the door. ‘We’re ready, Inspector.’
Act Two got under way without delay. ‘Not little girls, these bodies,’ Paula said. Jezza glared at her, his face immobile. ‘As I said, early days yet. We don’t know much about them. What we do know is that they were murdered.’
Jezza jerked involuntarily.
‘What do you say to that, Jezza?’ Paula leaned in, forearms on the table, eyes not leaving his.
‘No comment.’ His voice was cracked and dry.
‘They had plastic bags taped round their heads, Jezza. I don’t think the nuns did that, do you?’
‘No comment.’
‘Plastic holds fingerprints really well. So does adhesive tape. You’d be amazed how many people leave prints on the sticky side of the tape. Usually from the last time they used it before they taped up some part of someone’s body. Are we going to find your prints, Jezza? Your DNA?’
‘No comment.’ It was almost a howl. Cohen put a hand on his client’s arm, but Martinu flinched away from him. ‘I never killed anybody,’ he shouted.
Paula shook her head, apparently more in sorrow than in anger. ‘You see, that’s not how it looks, Jezza. Your vegetable garden. Raised beds that you built. You’ve got the shed full of tools. You’ve got the digger. You’ve been burying bodies for the nuns for years. You can see why I’m thinking we don’t have to look any further for our killer.’
‘You’re badgering my client, Inspector. This is purely circumstantial. You have no evidence.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘Come on, Mr Martinu. We’re leaving now.’
Martinu looked confused, but he stumbled to his feet. Paula stood.
‘Not so fast, Mr Cohen.’ She jerked her head towards the door and Steve moved to cut off the exit. ‘Jerome Martinu, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder—’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Martinu shouted, lunging towards her. ‘It was that fucking priest.’
34
As we become a more secular society, you’d imagine the numbers of killers claiming religious reasons for their crimes would diminish. I don’t have statistics on this, but anecdotally, if anything it’s on the increase . . .
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Alvin was left in a small anteroom off the tiled hallway. It resembled a police interview room in layout, but no police interview room ever boasted a burnished table with the kind of curly legs he’d only ever seen in antique shops. On one side stood a carved wooden seat with broad arms; on the other, a pair of severe and sturdy chairs. He stayed on his feet, studying the prints on the wall. They looked like the kind of old paintings you got on Christmas cards from people who wanted you to think they were more cultured than you.
The door opened behind him and he turned to see a tall nun in the doorway. The fabric of her habit was so perfectly black it made her look like negative space. On her head was a complicated starched confection that reminded Alvin of the TV adaptation of The Handmaid’s Tale, if Offred’s headgear had been folded back in a kind of go-faster spoiler. With the light behind her, her face looked austere and unlined. She could have been any age between thirty and sixty. ‘Sergeant Ambrose? I am the Superior General of the Order of the Blessed Pearl.’ As she spoke she moved to the ornate chair and gestured that he should sit opposite. ‘You may call me Mother Benedict.’
‘Thanks for seeing me.’ Alvin sat down on one of the least comfortable chairs he’d ever experienced.
‘We are aware of the outside world, Sergeant. We saw the news about the Bradesden house. We anticipated a visit from the police.’ Now the light was falling on her face, he could see there were fine
