Eleven Days (29 page)

‘But Sister Rose McGregor never reported back.’ Geneva’s voice was clipped and low.

Father McCarthy looked momentarily stricken and for the first time Carrigan could see how old he really was. ‘I blame myself for that,’ the priest said. ‘It was the last day of her trip and we were conducting masses for the local village. Sister Rose kept asking to see one of the mines we’d talked so much about and Father Ramirez offered to take her.’ Father McCarthy looked down at his shoes. ‘Two weeks later we found Father Ramirez’s head in the front yard of the local church. Sister Rose was never seen again.’

‘One of the nuns, Sister Glenda, kept coming back, though,’ Geneva said. ‘I also noticed that her visits often coincided with incidents occurring in the region.’

Father McCarthy nodded. ‘As time went on, the nuns wanted to see if they were getting their money’s worth. If we were making a difference. Of course, we also showed them the free clinics we’d set up, the new schools and missions, defence lawyers we had on hand for the workers and the fund we kept for striking miners’ families. That was our job, to fight back on the side of the poor, by whatever means were judged necessary and proportional. As you can imagine, after Sister Rose’s disappearance, the nuns’ commitment to the cause increased greatly.’

‘So this was all about Mother Angelica taking liberation theology too literally?’

McCarthy’s eyes creased. ‘It’s meant to be taken literally. That’s the point.’

‘Then why didn’t they try to escape the fire if their mission meant so much to them?’

‘Would it have done them any good?’ McCarthy said with a flat stony stare.

‘No,’ Carrigan conceded.

‘No. Exactly. And they knew that. They had nothing to fear from death, Inspector, on the contrary . . . they would have realised their situation and would have stayed sitting at the table and preparing for the life to come.’

‘Would they have had their rosary beads out?’

‘Yes, it’s quite possible they did.’

‘It sounds to me like they knew they’d done something wrong, gone too far, and were making amends.’

‘Ah, wouldn’t you like to believe that?’ McCarthy said. ‘It would make it so much easier, wouldn’t it? But you have to remember the compound was an experiment. An experiment in direct action, in accordance with the Bible and Jesus’ teachings. We weren’t revolutionaries or rebels, we were priests and nuns doing God’s work.’

‘And it got them killed.’

McCarthy turned to face Carrigan. ‘I don’t know that it did.’

‘What do you mean?’

Father McCarthy smiled. ‘Well, you’ve asked me a lot of questions about Peru and the compound but you still haven’t asked me about the night she came back with blood on her clothes.’

‘What do you mean she came back with blood on her clothes?’ Carrigan said. ‘Are you talking about Emily? Emily Maxted?’

McCarthy nodded and pushed his bowl aside. He reached for a packet of Senior Service lying on the table next to him. He grimaced as he lit the cigarette, the scent instantly filling the room as he exhaled a spiralling twist of smoke from his nostrils.

‘I told you the nuns had been sheltering escaped women? They’d bring them in through the back garden and hide them in the priest-hole. Emily persuaded them to take it a step further – not to wait until the lucky ones managed to escape but to snatch them from the hands of their captors. It didn’t take much persuading. I suspect it had been Mother Angelica’s unspoken conviction all along. Emily watched the Albanians and got to know their routines. The women were only ever let out when they were being transferred to another brothel. Emily and her accomplice would wait outside, then grab the woman and be out of sight before they even knew what had happened.’

‘Accomplice?’ Carrigan said, reaching into his file and pulling out the mugshot photo of Nigel the Nail. He passed it to the priest, watching him nod, a slight curl of distaste appearing on his lips.

‘Not the kind of person you would want to have dinner with, but the right kind for the job.’ He handed back the photo, evidently not wanting to hold onto it any longer. ‘He’d been travelling with Emily in Peru. Back in London, Emily talked him into helping the nuns snatch women from the Albanians. He was enamoured with her, that was clear to see. This man was not interested in saving the women, he only craved confrontation and battle, but sometimes we use tools that do not fit our hands and yet who’s to say they’re not good tools?’ The priest dragged hard on his cigarette, a wisp of regret flickering in his eyes then just as quickly disappearing.

‘What about the blood? You said she came back with blood on her clothes.’

McCarthy looked down at his hands and sighed. ‘Something went wrong the third time they tried it. When Emily came back she was screaming, all wild-eyed and hysterical. She was clutching a bag to her chest, blood all over her.

‘The nuns hid her in the priest-hole. They’d used it previously to shelter the escaped women and it was comfortable, if a little damp. For the first few days Emily refused to even come out – there was a new look in her eyes and it took me a while to realise that I’d never seen her scared before. She left a week later without saying a word to anyone. We saw her less and less after that. The nuns curtailed their snatch work for the time being, battened down and hoped it would go away. Then the visits began.’

‘The Albanians?’ Carrigan’s fingers were pressed tight against the stem of his pencil as he wrote down the information, all these missing blanks rushing in like mad whirling flakes of snow.

‘They’d somehow worked out who was behind it, I have no idea how. Two thugs came to the convent and asked to see Mother Angelica. They told her they only wanted Emily and the man who was with her that night. They didn’t know their names but they knew everything else. They came twice more, each visit with a new ultimatum to hand over the girl and Nigel. Mother Angelica held firm. They probably expected some spineless nun and had no idea of the torture and suffering she’d endured in South America.

‘But she wasn’t through with Emily. The next time Emily turned up Mother Angelica took her off to the kitchen. I remember hearing them screaming and arguing and shouting over each other’s words. Mother Angelica told her it was over, that she was no longer welcome in the convent. That if Emily didn’t turn herself in to the police, the nuns would be forced to. Emily called her a coward, a fraud and a fake and then—’

The door crashed open, spilling harsh white light into the room. Two huge orderlies entered, ignoring Carrigan and Geneva, and made their way directly to Father McCarthy, their strides long and brisk and full of purpose. Carrigan rose from his chair and saw Roger Holden standing in the doorway. The two orderlies flanked McCarthy and, at a nod from Holden, grabbed him by both arms and lifted him out of the chair.

Carrigan took a step forward and one of the orderlies detached himself from the priest and moved towards him, arms tensed, an unspoken challenge in his eyes.

‘Put him down,’ Carrigan ordered, reaching for the baton on his belt. The orderly threw a short right and Carrigan ducked and spun and grabbed the swinging fist in his own, twisting the man’s arm behind his back in one quick move. The other orderly let go of Father McCarthy and was coming to his colleague’s aid, fists squared and ready.

‘Wait, Norman,’ Holden said. ‘We don’t need to do that – do we, Detective Inspector Carrigan?’

Carrigan looked at the orderly, the ripple of muscles snaking down his arms, the funky smell of his fear-sweat. He saw Geneva up and ready, the can of pepper spray clutched in her small fist.

‘After all,’ Holden continued, ‘you’re trespassing. You used false pretences to gain entry. You took information from my office without permission. You’ve broken several laws, all of which I’m sure ACC Quinn will be very interested to hear about.’

Carrigan took a step back, realising that Holden was right and even if he somehow managed to overpower the orderlies, he would never be able to get McCarthy out of the building.

He let go of the man’s arm, catching his breath. The orderlies grabbed the priest and frogmarched him out of the room. McCarthy looked back at Carrigan once, then disappeared through the grey metal door.

‘Where the fuck are they taking him?’ Carrigan said, moving closer to Holden, breathing the words into his face.

Holden took a step back. ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ he replied. ‘Father McCarthy has to prepare himself for a long flight tomorrow. He needs his rest.’

‘A flight?’

‘He’s being transferred to a small parish in the South Pacific. Somewhere that needs a man like him. I’m sure he’ll find it a very interesting posting, a lot of challenges . . .’

‘You set me up, didn’t you?’ Carrigan said. ‘You left the room knowing we would . . . you even kept glancing in the direction of the filing cabinets every time I mentioned Father McCarthy . . .’ And then he stopped and leaned forward. ‘How long?’

‘How long what?’

‘How long have you known? From the very beginning? Or did you stumble on what the nuns were up to in Peru by accident? That’s the real reason you were having them excommunicated, isn’t it? Not over some book that no one would ever read.’

Holden resisted the temptation to take a further step back. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Carrigan grabbed Holden’s lapel and held him firm, cinching the material in his fists. ‘You suddenly have a very good reason for getting rid of the nuns.’

Holden pulled himself out of Carrigan’s grip, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket and shaking his head. He looked at his watch and smiled. ‘You have only a few hours left to enjoy your last day as a policeman – I suggest you don’t waste them here.’ 

He’d never seen the ACC like this. Normally undemonstrative and calm, Quinn was pacing back and forth behind Branch’s desk, the super nowhere to be seen, the grinding of Quinn’s teeth the only sound in the room. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Quinn was pulling out Branch’s chair, leaning on it, putting it back, his hands seemingly not under his control.

‘Sir?’ Carrigan kept his face impassive, a sinking in his stomach, the way you know something before you know it.

‘I will not tolerate your continued disrespect to the church and the position it’s put me in. I spoke to Roger Holden just now and he’s furious, on the point of pressing charges against you. You’re bloody lucky you’re not suspended. What did you think you were doing, Carrigan?’ Quinn’s eyes shot up, cold and piercing. ‘No, don’t answer – there’s nothing you can say to make this better. You entered Burnham monastery yesterday under false pretences and harassed a patient. I really thought someone with your background would be more discreet.’

‘My background?’ Carrigan repeated, lost words and conversations rattling through his head, that horrible sensation of things clicking into place. ‘You put me on this case because I’m a Catholic?’

‘Enough! Just listen to yourself, Carrigan. It’s how it looks that matters. Now, tell me, is the case wrapped up? Or have you been wasting time again?’

Carrigan took a deep breath and ran through what Father McCarthy had told them. Quinn’s face was rigid and unblinking. ‘Whores?’ Quinn said, shaking his head.

‘Nigel’s murder makes sense now. His death – the torture, mutilation and prolongation of suffering – is consistent with a revenge killing by the Albanians. Duka was getting payback. The way he saw it, Nigel and Emily had stolen from him. Duka’s men made three visits to the convent, demanding that the nuns hand over Emily, and when the nuns refused, Duka sent someone to torch the place.’

Quinn sighed. ‘You have this gift of making something very complicated sound so simple, Carrigan. I wish it were so. If this really was Duka, you’ll never tie him to it. You know that as well as I do.’

Carrigan was silent, the same thought circling his brain for the last few hours. ‘Maybe we can’t tie him to the fire but that doesn’t mean we should just forget him. He’s running a brothel on our patch, drugs, guns, God knows what else. Money is all he cares about and that’s where I want to hurt him. Raid his premises every other day. Station surveillance vans in plain sight outside his brothels. Make him give us the firestarter.’

Quinn shook his head and planted his hands deep in his pockets. ‘No. The last thing the Met needs right now is another harassment suit. You already have your culprit in the morgue.’

Carrigan wasn’t sure he understood quite what Quinn was suggesting. ‘Nigel?’

‘The man was scum. I want to go live with this tomorrow lunchtime. You know what to say. Emily had broken up with Nigel and he wasn’t too happy about it. He followed her to the convent, killed her and set the fire to hide the evidence.’

‘Nigel didn’t do it,’ Carrigan said. ‘The man was trash but he’s just as much a victim of Duka as the nuns. I’m not going to let Duka get away with this.’ He said it with as much conviction as he could muster but he could tell by the ACC’s eyes that it wasn’t enough.

‘I thought you’d say that, Carrigan. Which is why I called you in here to inform you that as of tomorrow I’m transferring the case to DI Malone.’

Carrigan had been expecting this, but not so soon. He stopped, took a deep breath, thought about what he was about to do and said, ‘Perhaps it would be wise to think about that before you . . .’

‘Are you threatening me?’ Quinn snapped.

‘Absolutely not.’ Carrigan eased forward on the chair, taking his time. ‘It’s just that if DI Malone takes over, I’ll have to hand him all my files, including the one detailing donors to the convent.’

Quinn stopped mid-stride and turned and stared at Carrigan. His hands gripped the back of the chair, the fingers turning white, his lips almost disappearing. ‘Donating money to a charity isn’t a crime.’

Carrigan allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile. ‘No, you’re correct – but it’s how it looks that matters, right?’

Quinn was breathing deeply, his fingers digging into the chair fabric, the rest of his body absolutely motionless.

‘You knew what they were doing, didn’t you?’ Carrigan stared into the ACC’s eyes and saw no flicker of denial or surprise. ‘You knew and you still gave them money.’

Quinn pulled out the seat and sat down heavily. He closed his eyes for a moment, eventually opening them to reveal small shrunk stones bereft of light. ‘Okay, Carrigan. What do you want? You want to be back on the case?’

‘I want a lot more than that.’

Quinn looked up and eyeballed him for a full minute before speaking. ‘Don’t for a minute think I’ll forget this, Carrigan.’

Geneva called out to Carrigan as he was leaving the building. She was sitting on a ledge outside the main gate, a cigarette clamped between her lips. She pulled out her earphones and crushed the butt under her shoe.

‘Problems with Quinn?’

Carrigan walked over and stood beside her. She looked tired and frayed, her eyes sunk deep into their sockets. ‘Nah, he just wanted to tell me what a great job we’re doing.’

It brought out a smile. He sat down on the ledge beside her, letting the adrenalin of the meeting course through his veins. ‘You done for the day?’

She nodded. ‘Was going to go home and watch a DVD.’ She hesitated, her mouth slightly ajar. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy joining me?’ She looked down at her shoes and the still smoking butt beside them.

‘I’d love to,’ Carrigan replied, ‘but I have to go meet Donna.’ He noticed a flicker of something on Geneva’s face, quickly subsumed. ‘I owe her Emily’s story. She’d finally turned her life around and the family needs to know that.’

Geneva didn’t say anything for a few moments, her eyes searching his. ‘Are you sure it’s because of the case you’re going?’

‘Of course,’ he replied, but as soon as he said it he knew he was partly lying and that it wasn’t the only reason. He watched as Geneva walked away and disappeared under the grey overhang of the motorway, only a couple of crushed cigarette butts to remind him she’d even been here at all.