Karim brought up a page of notes on his screen. ‘No criminal record. Clean driving licence. Drives a Porsche Cayenne. You know, the big SUV.’
Paula grinned. ‘You know Phill Jupitus? The stand-up? I once heard him do this brilliant routine about a “Porsche four-by-what’s-it-for”. So we do know fairly definitively that Conway’s a bit of a wanker.’
‘A self-made wanker, though.’ Karim clicked to a magazine profile of Mark Conway. He looked crisp and clean-cut in the photos. Conway in hill-walking gear with somewhere in the White Peak in the background; Conway in shorts and T-shirt (sensibly not lycra) on a bike trail in a wood; Conway in a sharp suit and open-necked shirt on the pitch at Bradfield Vics. ‘He had a pretty rough upbringing. Never knew his father, then his mother died when he was eleven. He was taken into care, spent the next five years in children’s homes.’ He highlighted a section of text.
I hated every minute of it. It was a training ground for bullies and abusers. The so-called carers turned a blind eye. It was too much trouble to try to police what was going on. As soon as I turned sixteen, I got a job on a market stall selling fake branded trainers. That was me done with the home. For the first six weeks, I slept under the stall, till I got enough money together to rent a bedsit.
‘Interesting,’ Paula said.
‘Yeah. He’s had a taste of life on the streets. Just like the victims, apparently.’
Paula shook her head. ‘It’s too early to jump to conclusions, Karim. We’ve not got IDs yet. We don’t know if these victims really were homeless. We’ve only got Martinu’s word for that, and he might be spinning us a pack of lies. And even if they do turn out to have been living on the streets . . . I think if Tony was around, he’d be cautioning us against mapping one thing directly on to another.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We shouldn’t leap to the conclusion that Conway’s tough teenage years give him some connection to victims who’ve had similar experiences. A connection isn’t necessarily a consequential relationship.’
As she spoke, Sophie walked past Karim. She glanced at the screen and stopped in her tracks. ‘You’re not still on about Mark Conway? I’m telling you, Paula, you are so wasting your time looking at him.’
‘Gotta follow where the breadcrumbs lead us,’ Paula said. ‘You’re probably right, but it’s not just in Agatha Christie novels that the least likely person turns out to be the one with the darkest secret.’
Sophie tutted. ‘You should be looking at Martinu’s other contacts. Going through his phone and his email.’
‘We are,’ Paula said. ‘His computer’s an open book, according to Stacey. If we don’t get anywhere with Conway, we’ll dig deeper. Don’t worry, we’re not obsessing with one single line of inquiry. What have you got going on in the incident room? Anything coming out of interest?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘The cupboard is bare. Fielding’s champing at the bit to interview nuns. She wasn’t happy to hear Sergeant Ambrose had already been to York. She’s pitching to do Norfolk, Liverpool and Galway, but the boss is holding his ground. He said his way might take longer but it would be consistent.’
Paula smiled. ‘Good to hear.’ She stood up. ‘Right. We’re off to talk to Martinu again. See what he has to say about the non-driving priest.’
She watched Sophie continue on her way, but before she could drill Karim on the forthcoming interview, Stacey slipped out from behind her screens. ‘I don’t know if it helps, but I checked out Martinu’s cottage. There’s no mortgage registered on it, but there’s a charge on the property.’
‘What’s that?’ Karim asked.
‘One day, when you’re old enough to buy a house, chances are you’ll have to borrow the cash,’ Paula teased. ‘Whoever you borrow your money from registers a charge on the property. When it’s sold, whoever holds the charge on the property has to be paid off before you get anything. So come on, Stacey, I know you’re dying to tell me. Who owns the charge on Martinu’s cottage? Is it the Order of the Blessed Pearl?’
‘Oh no, it’s much more interesting than that.’
‘We’ve got a bit of a problem here, Jezza,’ Paula said, forearms on the table, hands clasped. ‘You told us the priest brought the bodies to the convent to bury them in the holes you’d previously dug?’
‘That’s right, Inspector,’ Karim said, referring to his notebook.
Martinu looked at his lawyer for guidance. Cohen nodded. He was equally immaculate today, his suit a dark blue with the faintest of pearl grey pinstripes, his tie a rich purple shot silk. ‘You’ve answered this before.’
‘Yeah,’ Martinu grunted.
‘Constable, what exactly did Jezza say?’ Paula kept her eyes fixed on Martinu.
Karim flicked the pages till he came to the line he’d lifted from the recording. ‘“He’d drive in, usually with some deadbeat in the passenger seat.”’
‘You’re sure about that, are you? He’d bring a passenger with him?’
He nodded. ‘Mostly. Not every time.’
‘You see, that’s what I’m having trouble with. Father Keenan doesn’t have a car. He didn’t have a car then. In fact, he’s never had a car.’
Martinu’s eyes widened as he saw the chasm open at his feet. ‘He must have hired one, then. Or borrowed one. They all hang together, these priests.’ He spoke quickly, his eyes flicking to his lawyer.
‘He couldn’t have hired one, Jezza. Because he’s never had a driving licence. Not here. Not in Ireland.’ Paula tipped her head towards Karim. ‘Constable Hussein checked it out. He’s very thorough, is Constable Hussein. Michael Keenan can’t drive. He’s never even had a provisional licence. Never had driving lessons. He was too busy studying to be a priest.’
A long silence. Martinu swallowed hard. Cohen cleared his throat. ‘My client may have been mistaken in his recollection. Mr Martinu, perhaps, thinking back,
