‘Ah, poor Paddy. Who on God’s earth would want to do a thing like that?’
‘That’s why we’re here.’ The word “Mother” hovers on my tongue. I can’t quite bring myself to use it.
‘Surely, you’re not thinking someone here’s responsible?’
‘Not exactly “here”, but perhaps someone who was here while Mr Connelly was.’
‘But why? He was a lovely man. You children loved him. He was always singing his songs around the place as he did his work. I can’t imagine in a month of Sundays why anyone would take such an offence to the poor man.’
‘So you would say he was well-loved?’ I’m enjoying this now. She’s lying through her tea-stained dentures. Trying to protect the Church, no doubt. ‘Did you spend much time with the man yourself?’ I ask, as if I’m at a wake and celebrating the life of an old friend.
‘Not that much. He did all of the handyman stuff. But I worked with him in the garden now and again. A garden is such a gift from God, don’t you think?’ She aims this last comment at Allessandra, whom she has barely acknowledged until now. ‘That was my way of relaxing after spending the day with you young scallywags.’ That was an adjective she would rarely have used in her day.
Heathens
,
wastrels
,
demon spawn
, would have spun off her tongue like bullets from a Gatling gun.
‘So, no-one would have had even as much as a run in with Mr Connelly?’ I ask.
‘Rare is the person who could claim that sort of record, Ray. But he did get on well with most of us most of the time.’ She crossed her arms. I remember those arms, with the sleeves rolled up, washing me in a cold bath.
I shiver.
Then another memory of this woman asserts itself in my mind. The day I left here to go to the seminary. She held out a small brown, paper bag with a sandwich inside it. She fumbled with it, making sure it was closed.
‘Here.’ She all but shoved the bag into my hand. ‘Can’t have you going away hungry.’ She turned, but not before I saw a solitary tear glide down her cheek.
I remember standing watching her walk away. Her small black shape receding into the distance of the corridor as I tried to assess what had just happened. The sandwich. The tear. Good grief, I remember thinking Sister Mary must have actually liked me. Someone had to prod me with their finger to remind me that the bus driver was waiting.
I cough.
‘Mr Connelly was a convicted… paedophile.’ I suddenly feel out of sorts. As if my memory isn’t to be trusted. ‘Two girls from this convent testified against him fifteen years ago. It was probably a huge media event at the time. Surely you couldn’t have missed it?’ I realise my tone is a bit too strong. I enjoy it, but need to calm down a little.
‘We are closeted here from the world,’ she sits as if her back was lined with the wall. ‘… we rely on good men like yourself to keep us all safe.’ Her expression and her voice are polite, so why do I feel she’s taking the piss?
‘Mother Superior,’ I don my professional mask as easily as a frog would swallow a python. ‘I expect you want to catch this murderer as much as we do. We really need your help with our investigation. I apologise…’ although it’s costing me five years of my life. ‘… for my tone. There is an evil man out there and we need to find him in case anyone else is in danger.’
She sits down, her hand to her throat. I’d said the magic word…
Evil
.
‘Do you think he’ll come after anyone else?’ Her face is as pale as bleached linen.
‘We can’t be sure, but from what we can guess of his motivation, we suspect this is a one-off. A revenge killing for some poor child’s lost childhood.’ My pulse is just getting back to normal.
‘Frightful, just frightful. May the good Lord bless his soul.’ She looks into my eyes, her own devoid of emotion. We stare at each other, neither wishing to speak first. I can hear a little boy scream, look away, look away, look away. He is sweating and his legs have lost all strength.
I steel myself against her gaze, determined I will not move my eyes away first. My mouth is dry. It’s like looking into the eyes of a photograph. I’m getting nothing back.
‘Do you have a list of children who were here around the same time as Patrick Connelly?’ asks Allessandra.
‘Of course we do, my dear.’ Mother moves her eyes to her. Then straight back to me.
She smiles, letting me know she could have held my gaze for just as long as it took.
‘Sister Margaret,’ she booms. Sister Margaret walks into the room carrying a large ledger. She drops it on the table with relief.
‘We thought you might like to look at this,’ she says.
The book is large. About eighteen inches tall, twelve wide and ten deep. It is bound in black cracked leather and the front is gilded with a Celtic border. Someone has stuck a piece of lined paper on the front and written on it ‘1965 to 1975’. The pages are thick and rustle like a distant thunderclap as I open them.
A list of names appears before me. Children who spent their formative years here as I had done. What scars do they bear, I wonder? How many have been assimilated successfully into society? How many occupy our jails and mental homes?
I took my relative success in life for granted until a social worker helping me with a case found out I was brought up in an orphanage. Of the children who are reared in that environment, he informed me, seventy-five percent do not make a positive contribution to society. By that he meant they were junkies, thieves or worse. It shocked me. It’s not usually cruelty that causes it, he told me. It’s the absence of love.
‘It will take a while to go through this, Mother. Can we take it away? Or do you have a photocopier?'
‘I’m afraid the answer to your questions is, regrettably, no, Ray.’ A small, triumphant smile. ‘This is a document that is precious to the Order. We can’t let it out of our possession, without a judge intervening.’
‘That can be arranged.’
Mother slams the cover down. I manage to get my fingers out in time. ‘In the meantime,’ she warns, ‘… if that’s the path you decide to take, the killer’s trail will be colder than the good Lord’s tomb.’
Lifting the cover up again, I reply, ‘We’ll just take some notes for now. If we need to produce anything at a trial… I assume a court order will be obeyed?’
‘We follow a higher court, Ray, as you may have forgotten.’ Her hackles are still at attention, ‘But we will do what is necessary to help give this killer his earthly justice.’
She stands up. ‘Sister Margaret will attend to you now. The good Lord saw fit to grant me a wonderful burden. But this place doesn’t run itself.’ She looks at Allessandra.
‘Miss Rossi, you have my sympathy. He was a difficult child. From what I can see, little has changed.’
The small room seems huge now that she has left.
Allessandra pulls out a notepad, her face as unreadable as a blank piece of paper.
‘Why don’t you read them out, sir, and I’ll write them down.’ My thoughts are too busy for me to be concerned about what Allessandra is thinking right now. I’ll worry about her later.
I thumb through the pages until I find the years in question. I don’t want to be here doing this, where people can see me. I want to be in a quiet room, on my own.
Up until now, if I’d discussed my childhood with anyone, I would have expressed the view that I had adjusted well to my less than conventional past. The emotions that pull at the corners of my mouth and threaten to spill from my eyes take me completely by surprise. I hold my hands under the table, to hide their tremble and take a deep, slow breath. I exhale through pursed lips.
‘Sir?’
‘I’ll… Give me a second… right, found the place.’ I read the first name, my voice just audible. ‘Carol Connor. Date of birth: seventh of October nineteen fifty-eight.’ As I read, I’m surprised at how few names I can put a face to. Most of the names ring with faint familiarity, but few faces appear in my mind’s eye.
Ah, there’s one… and another. Who could forget the twins; John and Jim Leonard. Your archetypal, inseparable twins. The fact that they had no living relatives other than each other doubtless cemented the bond provided to them by nature. They were so alike the nuns put a sticking plaster on the back of their necks with their names inked on them. I prided myself on being one of the first to be able to name them on sight. There was no one thing I could pinpoint as the recognisable feature. I just knew which was which.
The children had a pecking order. You could always back up your stance, provided you were right, with the phrase, ‘I’ve been here longer than you.’ This was always sufficient to make the other child back down, regardless of the argument. John and Jim had no need of this. They had each other. Their combined weight was enough to do the job. That is, until John died.
Chapter 10
‘Sir…’ Allessandra is looking at me again. My gaze is fixed on the book, but I’ve stopped reading. I can only see the past.
‘Right… where was I?’ I pull myself into the present. You have a job to do, McBain. Then a name jumps out at me, before I put voice to the words. Shit. I was here at the same time as Connelly. This could complicate matters. I quickly read the next name on the list. Not quickly enough.
‘That was your name there, was it not, sir?’
‘There’s no pulling the wool over your eyes, Allessandra, is there?’ I say.
She examines her notebook.
‘I don’t think we need to concern ourselves with that, now do we? I’m hardly likely to be a suspect.’ As a potential suspect, albeit one that could quickly be wiped from the list, I would be withdrawn from the case. There’s no way that’s happening. Even temporarily. I’m just moving to a position that I would be in eventually anyway. I’m just… circumventing the correct procedure. I carry on reading. A few other names snap open memories from my past. But none as memorably as the twins.
Of the two I knew John a little better. We were comrades in punishment for a couple of years. The crime: wetting our beds. The punishment: a cold bath.
Each morning at five-thirty, the sheets would be pulled back from our beds to examine their state. If they were dry, we would be left to go back to sleep for another half an hour before rising for morning Mass. If they were wet, we were marched by the earlobe into the bathroom. As the cold water rose in the bath, we were left to stand naked, while we contemplated the sin we had just committed. A sin that would see us in Hell. A sin we could still feel burning our groins and thighs.
Sister Mary kept a special treatment for either of us who managed to sin for more than three days in a row. She would wrap us in our urine-sodden bed sheet. We would only be allowed to bathe once the other children had attended Mass, eaten breakfast and were on their way to school. This had the added dimension of making us late for school.
Our shame didn’t end there. Public humiliation was a strong weapon in Sister Mary’s arsenal. At her earliest convenience the subject of bed-wetting would come up.
‘What else can we expect from a boy who wets the bed?’ She would address everyone in the vicinity. Then she would laugh, throwing her head back like a pantomime villain.
All those present would be expected to join in. Ears burning, staring at the floor, you could do nothing but wait until something or someone else attracted her attention.
Children are wonderful mimics. And in Sister Mary they had a wonderfully persistent teacher. As a result, taunting the bed-wetter became a ritual, like going to Mass or saying the Rosary. At least when other children began to taunt you out of earshot and sight of the nuns, a well-placed knee or elbow would quickly persuade your tormentor to choose someone else.
Fortunately for me, I outgrew my sinful bladder before John did his. His shame continued for some time. Until the morning he didn’t turn up at school.
I passed his bed that last morning, just as Sister Mary left the room. On hearing a cough that made me think someone had sneaked a dog into the room I had one last chant at him before I went off to Mass.
‘Hey, wet-the-bed,’ I hoped that it was loud enough for the nun to hear, ‘you’re going to Hell.’
John was propped up on a pillow, wrapped in his foul-smelling sheets. His small frame shook with the force of his coughing as he tried to answer me back, his expression hot with anger. My face burned with shame when I gauged his reaction. I didn’t like it when people did it to me. Why was it right to do it someone else?
‘Shut… it.’ he managed a syllable before another cough wracked his body, almost lifting him off the bed with its force. ‘Tell Jim… I’ll be… down… later.’ Leaning forward I looked at his face. Coughs and colds were a normal occurrence in the Home, but I’d never seen such a white face before.
When I turned to leave Jim was right behind me. So close behind me that I walked into him as I turned. His expression was one of naked hate. At the time I remembered wondering who he was angry at. Me or John? It must have been me. Why would he hate his brother? Jim’s eyes burned through me as I moved away from the bed and towards the door. I stuck my tongue out at him and walked from the room, knowing as I walked that it was important that I didn’t show any fear. But not knowing why.
We were never told how John died, although the play-field at the back of the convent was buzzing with guesses. As one of the last people to see him alive I was granted some status in the debate. The cough I heard was altered till it resembled a wolf howling at the moon. The colour of his face I described as a plate of ice cream, minus the jelly.
We were simply told that he had been taken to hospital. A week later we were told he was dead. His brother Jim withdrew from life at the Convent.
Always the quieter of the two, he became as insubstantial as a shadow and was often seen talking to the empty space to his side. The nuns couldn’t tolerate this behaviour for long and he too disappeared. We were told that Jim wasn’t well and that he had been taken to a place where he could be looked after properly. In no time at all he would be better and would rejoin us. We never saw him again.
‘Thank you, Sister.’ I stand up and leave. We have taken down all the names of the children who stayed here while Connelly was sowing his evil oats. With one notable exception. I would have to have a word with Allessandra, make sure she understood.
‘If we can be any more help,’ Sister Margaret has one hand on the door, preparing to close it. ‘Please come back and see us.’
‘We will, Sister. Thank you,’ says Allessandra.
At the car, I throw her my keys. I need to think. Theresa would describe it as brooding.
‘You drive.’
We circle the statue of Jesus and, at the gates, as we prepare to join the stream of traffic on the main road, I look over my shoulder. Christ is standing on his plinth, wearing a smile, his arms spread wide to embrace the world, his terrible wounds on display.
We’re having a briefing in the incident room the same day. My mind has its ball bearings back in its runners. Just as well, or Rossi would be reporting me to the boss and I would be withdrawn from the case. I look around the room. Just about every face is sporting a five o’clock shadow, wearing it like an announcement of a hard day out of the office. Ties and top buttons are loose. Uniform posture of the hour is The Slouch.
‘Right, people. What’ve we got?’
‘We got something interesting, Ray,’ Peters sits up. Keen to speak. ‘Let’s just say, the Papes don’t have a monopoly on being fucked up.’
A few catcalls from the Catholics around the room at Peters’ use of the derogatory term.
‘Of the kids who were there at that time… we have two or three who’ve been done for burglary… stealing to feed their habit… another two or three been up for Serious Assault…’
‘Is it two or three, Peters?’
‘Eh…’ he looks at his notes. I see his neck stain red. ‘… two, Ray.’
‘So stop fucking exaggerating.’ To hide my abrupt manner, I add, ‘… I’ve told you nine hundred and ninety-nine times.’
Under my smiling response to the laughter, I question my irritation. What was that all about?
‘There’s more.’ The flush on Peters’ face reduces. He thinks he’s got something here. ‘An old worker at the place was there at the same time as Connelly, remembers the cases against him. Says there was a younger brother of a rape victim. Threatened to kill Connelly when he grew up.’ There’s a career ambition, I thought. What do you want to be when you grow up, son? I want to kill the fucker who raped my sister. And so it feeds on itself. Revenge spoils the innocent. Makes them no better than the person responsible. The victim becomes a perpetrator.
‘Have we located the victim or her brother?’
‘Yes.’ Peters can barely contain his excitement. ‘The brother’s been in and out of jail for violent crimes. His sister killed herself just after the trial.’ The last comment a tragic footnote that’s tacked on at the end without a thought. Mind you it’s best not to think. Too much.
‘What kind of violent crimes?’
‘Mostly slashings. One with a pickaxe. Gang stuff.’
‘Was he in or out of the nick at the time of the murder?’
‘Out.’
‘Have you located this paragon of aggression then?’
‘Yeah. Lives here in Glasgow. We’ll bring him in, in the morning.’
‘Good.’ That’s as much as I can offer by way of apology for my terse manner. ‘Anything else?’ I address the room.
‘Just a list of names as yet, Ray.’ answers Gary Wilson. His eyes are just about aligned with his nostrils, he’s that tired. He was up at Aberdeen first thing this morning. No wonder he’s knackered, driving all that way and back in the one day.
‘What about you and Allessandra, Ray?’ asks Harkness. ‘How did you guys get on?’ I look at Allessandra and nod for her to speak. We’d gone for a bite to eat before we got here. Had a little talk.
From the road, the little restaurant looks okay.
The Trattoria
, the legend reads over the window. The closest it comes to Italy, however, is the plastic grapes going to dust on every available shelf and posters of Florence on every wall. Facing you as you come in is a framed print of The Last Supper. Only three tables are in use. Allessandra says later that we should have taken note of all that and ran out screaming, but I was a little distracted.
A quick look at the menu on the wall and we order our meal at the till. As we sit down, I take the opportunity to speak.
‘So what did we learn today, Allessandra?’
She is facing me, rubbing at a stain on the table-cover with a napkin. Then she meets my eyes. I present a calm, but expectant demeanour. I am telling her I expect her cooperation and I will brook no arguments.
‘Not much, as yet, sir. A few names to look into.’
‘Anyone we know of?’
She shakes her head in response. Her eyes back on the stain.
‘Was it that bad, sir?’ Allessandra asks, then makes a face as if she regrets the words as soon as they spill from her mouth.
‘It was a fucking picnic.’ I pause on the edge of a threat and force some calm into my mind. I’m making life difficult enough for her. She doesn’t deserve what I was about to say.
‘Sorry,’ I offer. ‘Could’ve been worse.’
Allessandra’s mouth opens as if she is about to speak. Then she thinks better of it. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth opens again.
‘With all due respect, sir,’ she begins, her face red and her hands under the table. ‘We’ll play it your way for now. But if this knowledge compromises the case, I’m going straight to the Super.’
‘Allessandra. Do you really think I’m a suspect?’ My arms are wide, my expression full of apology.
‘No.’
‘No harm done then. Eh?’ Our food arrives. Fish and chips for Allessandra and a ham and pineapple salad for me. Allessandra looks at my plate with a grimace.
‘Starving yourself then?’
It is an insult to call what is on my plate a salad. Two baby tomatoes, a large lettuce leaf, browning around the edges like a warning of autumn, a strip of celery and four slices of ham so thin you can see the plate’s pattern through them.
‘Waiter,’ I say and look around. Other diners study their plates.
‘Ray, you have mine.’ Allessandra pushes her plate towards me.
‘No thanks, Allessandra. Waiter.’ Even louder. The kitchen door opens and a young man walks towards us. A resigned expression on his face. He stands at the table, holding his hands in front of his swollen belly.
‘Is there something wrong?’ His face is a curious mix of masculine and feminine. Cropped hair, finely arched eyebrows, long lashes, a nose that looks as if it has taken a punch or two and lips straining not to explode. His voice is also ambiguous. The sound is deep bass, but the rise in tone at the end of the question purely female. I wonder if he is a transvestite out of hours. It must take dedication to get eyebrows as neatly curved as that.
‘What the hell do you call this?’ I ask.
‘It’s a ham and pineapple salad. Just as you ordered.’ The waiter’s expression doesn’t register the use of language or the aggressive tone. I could be commenting on the state of the traffic for all the reaction he allows.
‘Where’s the pineapple, then?’
‘It’s heavily disguised. As a stick of celery.’ A half-smile. He is so outrageous, I can’t help but laugh, the raw edge of my anger burned off by the waiter’s complete lack of response.
He nods at the kitchen and lowers his voice. ‘The chef’s on the sick. Chronic depression. We got a wee lassie in off the brew.
Chef sans papiers
, you might say. Doesn’t know her tits fae her elbows. Still, we’ve kept her off the streets for a few hours.’ He smiles, showing a set of fabulously white teeth. ‘Can we tempt you with something else?
Amuse bouche
?
Coq au vin
?
Steak au poivre
? Egg and chips?’
‘What the hell. I’ve had a long day. I deserve it.’ I join in with his attempt at levity and shrug at Allessandra in a sometimes it’s better to just laugh it off kind of way. ‘Egg and chips.’
‘How would Sir like his eggs?’ he bows.
‘Medium-rare. Hold the sauce.’ A McBain smile.
The waiter retreats. We sit in silence, both lost in our own thoughts until…
‘Ray?’
‘What?’
‘What do you make of Peters?’ She pushes a couple of chips around on her plate, hitting them against some peas.
‘Em… all right, if you like that sort of thing. How do you mean?’
‘Well. As a policeman. I mean. I don’t fancy him or anything. Just, you know… I want to be a good cop, Ray. And sometimes the best way to learn is to copy someone who’s been there.’ She stops playing with the cutlery, her eyes fixed on mine.
‘As a policeman…’ I speak slowly, carefully considering my response. ‘He’s an OK cop. Does an OK job.’
