The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 (7 page)

‘So you think the writer might be a Catholic?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Hilary. ‘He mentions the “Blessed Chalice”. If it was a Catholic surely he’d say something about the chalice containing the Blood of Christ?’

It all sounds rather horrible to Ruth, but then many religions do, including the gentle paganism practised by Cathbad. She wonders how Cathbad enjoyed his stay in Walsingham. She must ring him tonight. She notes that Hilary knows the letters by heart; also that she’s convinced the writer is a man.

They are almost back at the great arch, standing on its own by the entrance. Looking at it, Ruth is reminded of a building site in Norwich, where an arch was the only thing remaining of the original house. Under the arch, which once framed a doorway, Ruth had found a child’s bones. The memory makes her feel anxious and slightly dizzy. She hurries through the archway and bumps into a priest. That’s the problem with Walsingham. There are priests everywhere.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.

‘My mistake,’ says the man courteously in an Irish accent. Then ‘Ruth? Is it you?’

It’s as if Ruth’s thoughts have conjured up the past. Because there in front of her is Father Patrick Hennessey, the priest involved with the ruined house in Norwich. They have kept in touch sporadically over the years – it was Father Hennessey who baptised Kate – but now, to see him here, in Norfolk, under another archway, seems almost like a miracle.

‘Father Hennessey! What are you doing here?’

Is it her imagination or does the priest look slightly embarrassed, almost furtive? ‘Just a private pilgrimage, Ruth. Just a private pilgrimage. But how are you and your lovely baby?’

‘She’s not a baby any more. She’s five and at school. Oh, sorry . . .’ Ruth is suddenly aware of Hilary standing beside her, looking extremely curious. ‘This is my friend Hilary Smithson.’

‘The Reverend Smithson, I see.’ Father Hennessey doffs his hat, an old-fashioned trilby. ‘Delighted to meet you.’

‘Delighted to meet you too.’ Hilary seems rather confused to be receiving so much respect from the elderly clergyman. She puts her hand up to her clerical collar, as if surprised to find it there.

‘We’re just going for a cup of tea,’ says Ruth. ‘Would you like to come?’

‘Thank you, no,’ says Father Hennessey. ‘I’ve only got a few minutes before Mass. Just time for a quick look at the snowdrops. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’ And he raises his hat again and disappears through the archway like the White Rabbit.

*

Nelson is preparing for the morning team meeting. Sometimes these briefings can be fairly perfunctory affairs – Nelson reading through the logbook while Clough eats a McDonald’s breakfast – but, with a major incident under way, the team meeting is crucial. Nelson will need to make sure everyone is up to speed on all developments, assign lines of enquiry and answer idiotic questions from Roy (Rocky) Taylor, the slowest policeman in the country. So, when there’s a knock on his door, Nelson makes his most discouraging noise and hopes that the visitor is going to go away.

To his annoyance, the caller mistakes the sound for ‘Please come in’.

‘Boss, can I have a word?’

It’s Tim. For one moment, Nelson thinks that he’s come to tell him to forget the whole transfer conversation, that he’s reconsidered and is happy to stay in Norfolk. This thought makes him sound unusually welcoming.

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘It’s about Chloe Jenkins.’

‘What about her?’

‘It was something her mother said. That, when she was little, Chloe’s childminder had said that she was like an angel.’

‘Everyone seems to be talking about angels. Chloe was seeing angels here, there and everywhere, going on courses to feel their vibrations and what have you.’

‘The same thought struck me,’ says Tim seriously. ‘Anyway, I thought it might be worth talking to the childminder, especially if she’s local. So I rang the parents last night and asked for her number.’

‘Good thinking. Are you going to go and see her?’

‘That would be difficult,’ said Tim. ‘She died in 2002. She’s buried in the graveyard at St Simeon’s.’

He looks at Nelson, who slowly gets the message.

‘Good God. So Chloe’s childminder was . . .’

‘Doreen Westmondham. Julie, Chloe’s mother, says that Chloe was devoted to Doreen. She was devastated when the family left Norfolk, and they had to say goodbye. She never forgot her.’

‘You can say that again,’ says Nelson, ‘if she was sneaking out at night to clean the woman’s grave. Fiona McAllister said that Chloe had been in a family therapy session on the day before she died. Maybe that’s what put Doreen into her mind.’

‘I looked up the Westmondhams,’ says Tim. ‘Doreen had three sons, as well as lots of foster children. They all still live locally.’

‘What do they do?’

‘Steven’s a plumber, lives in Fakenham. Married with two daughters. Kevin’s divorced and lives in Holt with his new partner. But Larry, the youngest son, is the interesting one.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s the vicar at St Simeon’s.’

Nelson thinks of the church which didn’t provide sanctuary to Chloe Jenkins, of the overgrown graveyard and the one white stone, so lovingly tended.

‘You’d better go and see him,’ he says.

*

Ruth and Hilary are back in the Blue Lady tea rooms. Ruth has virtuously refused a brownie, but accepts half of Hilary’s scone. It’s a well-known fact that shared food doesn’t contain calories.

Hilary chats brightly about her course.

‘Everyone’s so friendly. It’s a real tonic. We went to a service at St Simeon’s last night. It was really beautiful. And then Larry, the vicar, invited us back to his house for lasagne.’

‘Did the vicar cook for you all?’

‘Well, his wife did. She was charming.’

Ruth reflects that vicars still have charming wives who do the cooking. She wonders whether Hilary’s husband could rustle up a lasagne.

‘What sort of people are on the course?’

‘All women priests. Most of them are like me and have been in post several years. So we’re ready for the next step.’

‘Which is becoming a bishop?’

Hilary smiles modestly. ‘I wouldn’t say I was ready, personally, but we’re hoping that the General Synod will give its approval to women bishops in July. It’s as well to be prepared.’

‘Who’s running the course? A woman priest?’

Hilary looks slightly embarrassed as she says, ‘No, it’s a theologian called Robin Rainsford. He’s very well respected, though, and a big supporter of the cause. I went on another course that he ran last year.’

Ruth rather envies Hilary all these courses. She wanted to go on a course a couple of years back – something to do with DNA-dating techniques – but Phil had flatly refused. ‘We just don’t have the budget, Ruth.’ This before disappearing on a weekend fact-finding trip to Padua.

‘The other women seem lovely,’ Hilary is saying. ‘So supportive and friendly. In fact . . .’ She looks speculatively at Ruth.

‘What?’

‘Well, we’re going out for a meal tomorrow night. You should come. I know they’d love to meet you.’

Why? thinks Ruth. Why should they want to meet me and why should I want to meet them? She takes refuge in her usual excuse. ‘I’ll have to see if I can get a babysitter.’

‘Of course.’ Hilary is looking supportive again. ‘It must be hard when you’re on your own.’

‘I’m sure it’s hard with both of you working,’ counters Ruth. ‘Especially with you and your husband both being priests. It’s not exactly a nine-to-five job, is it?’

Hilary doesn’t seem to want to discuss her domestic arrangements.

‘Who was that priest you introduced me to?’ she says. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

Ruth hesitates – is Father Hennessey her friend? She liked him from the first, he’s clever and funny and surprisingly non-judgemental. But can a priest be a friend? Then again, here she is sharing a scone with her old university friend Hilary, who is also a priest.

‘He’s called Father Patrick Hennessey,’ she says. ‘I met him when I was working on a case in Norwich.’

‘A police case?’ says Hilary.

‘Yes. The field archaeology team found some bones buried in a house that was about to be demolished. The house used to be a children’s home. Father Hennessey ran it.’

‘Oh.’ Hilary looks as if she has some more questions, but, to her credit, she doesn’t ask them. Instead she says, ‘What’s going to happen to the letters now?’

‘I think Nelson . . . the police . . . just want to look at them to see if there’s anything . . . suspicious.’

Hilary looks at her shrewdly. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

That’s the trouble with Hilary. She always was sharp, even in the old days. Ruth sighs. ‘You know there was a murder here last week?’

‘Yes. Some poor drug addict. I read about it in the papers.’

‘Well, Nelson thinks there’s a possibility – just a possibility, mind you – that there’s a link.’

‘Between my letters and the murder of that poor girl?’

‘It’s just a theory. He has to explore every lead. I probably shouldn’t have told you this much.’

‘Is that why you asked me if any other women priests had had letters?’

‘I suppose so.’

For some reason Hilary is smiling. ‘I was right. You have become a detective.’

‘No I haven’t.’ Ruth is feeling rather stupid, an emotion she realises that Hilary often engenders in her.

‘You have. You really must come out with us tomorrow night. Do some sleuthing.’

Ruth is about to reply – to recall some vital prior engagement – when she sees a dark figure hurrying past. It’s Father Hennessey. She’s about to tap on the window to invite him in, but there’s something about the black-clad figure that makes her hesitate. Father Hennessey looks like a man on a mission. And not a particularly divine one either.

Chapter 11

Even without Tim and Clough, the briefing room seems full. Tanya is sitting at the front, glasses glinting. Rocky Taylor is at the back. He has his notebook open, though Nelson notices that he has neglected to take the cap off his pen. Officers from other stations take the remaining seats, most of them trying not to look excited. This is the biggest case most of them will have seen.

Nelson runs through the investigation so far.

‘Chloe Jenkins left the Sanctuary at approximately eight p.m. on Wednesday 19th February.’ He points at the map. ‘A woman answering her description was seen by Michael Malone, commonly known as Cathbad, in the graveyard of St Simeon’s Church, Walsingham, at about nine o’clock. Chloe’s body was found by a dog-walker the next morning. Her body was in a ditch, about a mile outside Walsingham on a road known as the Pilgrim Route to the Slipper Chapel, the Catholic shrine. Chloe had been strangled. No sign of sexual assault. She was still in her nightclothes: white nightdress, blue dressing gown. No underwear was found. A rosary was also found in the ditch. It had hand-carved wooden beads and a silver cross. We’ve followed it up and it’s a design sold both at the Walsingham Shrine shop and the Slipper Chapel. The pathologist puts the time of death at between ten o’clock and midnight on the Wednesday night. So we are looking for any sightings between eight o’clock and midnight.’

‘What was Chloe doing when this Malone saw her?’ The question comes from a young officer from another district. Anyone from King’s Lynn would know Cathbad.

‘She was standing by a gravestone. I’ve got reason to believe that she’d been cleaning it. There were traces of cleaning fluid on her fingers and cleaning equipment was found hidden in the undergrowth nearby. The grave belonged to one Doreen Westmondham, who died in 2002. It turns out that Doreen was also Chloe’s childminder when the family lived in Norfolk.’

Tanya says, ‘So Chloe was visiting the grave of her old nanny? That’s very sad.’

‘I don’t think she was a nanny as much as an occasional babysitter,’ says Nelson, ‘but I want to find out more about her. Heathfield and Clough are interviewing Doreen’s son Larry now. He’s the vicar at St Simeon’s. Chloe was making good progress at the Sanctuary, according to her doctor, Fiona McAllister. I’ve also spoken to her personal therapist Holly Barrett, and Heathfield and I have interviewed her closest friends amongst the other guests.’

‘Are they models?’ asks Rocky hopefully.

‘No, they’re a middle-aged couple. A retired teacher and a retired vicar. Fuller . . .’ He turns to Tanya, who sits up even straighter. ‘Chloe was doing an online course. Something to do with angels. Can you follow it up? Find out a bit more about it?’

‘Yes, boss.’ Tanya sounds less than enthusiastic to be given the angel brief. Nelson decides to cheer her up. ‘But first you can go to Walsingham and co-ordinate the scene-of-the-crime search. They’re concentrating on the area where Chloe’s body was found.’

Tanya brightens immediately. Co-ordinating is almost as good as being in charge.

‘Chloe had a boyfriend called Thom Novak,’ continues Nelson. ‘He’s also in rehab, in Switzerland. Heathfield spoke to him on Thursday and he seemed very shaken by Chloe’s death. He’s got an alibi for Wednesday night, but nevertheless we should keep an eye on him. I don’t need to tell you that the killer is usually someone close to the victim. Miller and Cannivan –’ he turns to two DCs from Norwich – ‘you look into Novak’s history. See if there’s anything we need to know about. If you need to speak to the family, go through DS Heathfield.’

‘We need to trace Chloe’s footsteps on Wednesday night,’ says Nelson. ‘I simply don’t believe that no one saw a young girl in her nightdress wandering through the fields. We could do a reconstruction. Her sister might be willing to play Chloe’s part. Taylor –’ he turns to Rocky who is chewing his pen lid – ‘You make sure there are signs on all the roads leading in and out of Walsingham, asking for witnesses.’ Surely Ricky can’t mess this up?

‘Yes, boss,’ says Rocky. ‘Witnesses to what?’

*

Tim and Clough arrive just as the morning service is finishing and have to endure an excruciating few minutes listening to the Reverend Larry Westmondham praying aloud to a congregation of three old ladies and a sleeping man who looks as if he might be homeless.

When the old ladies leave they look at the two policemen curiously.

‘Good morning,’ says Clough.

The women move closer together as if for safety.

‘Good morning,’ whispers one. And they scuttle out through the church porch. The homeless man sleeps on.

Larry Westmondham comes to greet them. He has taken off his vestments and is dressed in a black clergyman’s suit with white dog collar. He’s an affable-looking man of about forty. He’s almost completely bald, but, curiously, this has the effect of making him seem young rather than old.

‘DS Heathfield, DS Clough.’ They shake hands and Tim thinks that Westmondham has a typical vicar’s handshake, firm and controlling.

‘You said you wanted to see me.’ Larry Westmondham then ushers them to a pew near the front of the church. There aren’t that many pews, although the church is a vast, cavernous space. To Tim it seems very bare after his mother’s place of worship; no children’s posters or colourful tapestries, just grey stone and a high altar that’s almost invisible. There are some statues around the outside wall, but they are grey too and seem to blend into the stone. It’s a cold place – physically cold too. Tim and Clough both keep their coats on.

‘Thank you for seeing us,’ says Tim. ‘It’s about the young woman who was murdered just outside Walsingham last week. Her name was Chloe Jenkins. Did you read about the case?’

‘Yes.’ Larry passes a hand over his smooth head. ‘Such a terrible thing to happen. She was a patient at the Sanctuary, wasn’t she?’

‘She was,’ says Tim. ‘But it seems that she also had a link to your family.’

‘To my family?’ Larry casts a worried glance at the altar as if wondering exactly which family is being mentioned here.

‘Yes. It seems that your mother, Doreen Westmondham, was Chloe’s childminder. Did you know about this?’

At the mention of his mother’s name, something seems to happen to Larry’s face. The contours relax and he even smiles, a rather sweet, reminiscent smile.

‘I didn’t know, but Mum looked after so many children. She was a school dinner-lady – all the pupils loved her – and she was a foster mother. She must have fostered over a hundred children. Lots of them came to her funeral and said such lovely things about her.’

‘She sounds like a wonderful woman,’ says Tim, meaning it. ‘So you didn’t know Chloe Jenkins personally?’

Larry’s brow furrows again. ‘I don’t think so. How old was she?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘There you are. I’m forty-four. I was probably at university or working by the time Mum looked after her. The house was always full of children. My brothers and I said that, as soon as we left home, she moved some more foster children into our rooms.’

Did they resent that? wonders Tim. There’s nothing in Larry’s face to suggest as much, but he supposes that priests – like policemen – become adept at disguising their true emotions.

‘We also believe that Chloe attended services here,’ says Tim. ‘Do you remember speaking to any patients from the Sanctuary?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Larry. ‘I try to speak to everyone after Sunday services, but I wouldn’t know where they came from unless they told me.’

‘Here’s a picture,’ says Clough. In deference to Larry’s holy orders they have selected the least provocative of Chloe’s modelling pictures. It shows her in a demure white dress, standing in a field of buttercups. She is turning, laughing, towards the camera, one hand holding back her long blonde hair.

Larry blinks and, indeed, the picture, so golden and sun-drenched, seems to glow like a beacon in the gloomy church.

‘Do you recognise her?’ prompts Tim.

‘Yes,’ says Larry. ‘I think so. I remember . . . I think I remember seeing her at services.’

I bet you do, thinks Tim. From what he has seen of Larry’s congregation, Chloe would definitely stand out.

‘Did you ever speak to her?’ asks Clough.

‘I may have done,’ says Larry. ‘Just hallo and goodbye. As I say, I try to have a word with everyone.’

‘Can you tell us where you were on the evening of the 19th February?’ This is Clough, in his role as bad cop.

Larry doesn’t seem unduly fazed by the question, though.

‘That was a Wednesday, wasn’t it? There’s no Evensong on a Wednesday. My wife has a knit and natter group at the house so my job is usually keeping the kids out of her hair.’

‘How many children do you have?’ asks Tim, good cop.

‘Four,’ says Larry. ‘Girls aged ten, eight and six and a baby boy, eighteen months old.’

‘You must have your hands full.’

‘Well, my wife does really. It’s a full-time job running this place. I’ve got three other parishes as well.’

‘Really?’ Clough is surprised out of his hard-boiled persona. ‘I thought vicars only had one church.’

‘That was in the good old days of the Vicar of Dibley,’ says Larry. ‘These days vicars in rural communities have three or four parishes each. And these big old churches cost a bomb to keep up.’ Larry’s eyes wander to the giant thermometer propped up by the back wall labelled ‘Parish Improvement Fund’. Judging by the level achieved so far, the patient is critical.

‘So you were at home all evening on Wednesday?’ says Tim.

‘Yes. I supervised the girls’ homework and bath time. When the children were in bed Daisy and I watched television.’

‘What did you watch?’

‘
Rev
,’ says Larry with enthusiasm. ‘It’s our favourite programme.’

‘That’s a comedy, isn’t it?’ says Clough.

‘It’s both comic and tragic,’ says Larry. ‘Like life.’

‘Chloe was seen in the graveyard of St Simeon’s on the night she died,’ says Clough. ‘Do you know anyone who would have been near the church then?’

‘No,’ says Larry. ‘The church is locked and the verger lives in Great Walsingham, a few miles away. Justin, who lives in the cottage, was away then. He had a friend house-sitting. A charming chap, very interested in church history.’

That sounds like Cathbad, who is interested in everything. Still, it appears that Larry doesn’t have anything to add about Chloe Jenkins, and he has an alibi for the night of the 19th (though that will have to be checked).

‘If anything else occurs to you,’ says Tim, ‘here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to be in touch.’

‘I will,’ says Larry, pocketing the card without looking at it. ‘Goodbye. God bless you.’

As they leave, the homeless man is still snoring in one of the back pews.

*

When he gets back to his office, Nelson sees a yellow sticky note on his desk: ‘Ruth Galloway called. She left a package for you.’ He goes downstairs and finds Tom Henty, the doughty desk sergeant, holding several envelopes tied together with string. ‘Ruth left these,’ he says. ‘She’s looking well. Can’t believe her little girl is at school.’ Nelson looks at Tom suspiciously. He never knows how much the staff at the station guess about Kate’s parentage. His team know, but the subject is never mentioned unless Nelson raises it first. He grunts something non-committal and heads back to his office, taking the stairs two at a time.

At first he skims through the letters, pausing only to wonder how people can get so upset about a subject like this. He has no problem with the idea of women priests – or married priests for that matter – though he’s sure that his mother would have something to say on the subject. But Maureen would never buy into all this a woman is not to ‘teach or to have authority over a man’ nonsense. As far as Nelson can see his mother has preached to everyone all her life, and she’s the most authoritative person he knows.

But when he gets to the last letter his expression changes. He reads it again, frowning. Then he picks up the phone.

‘Ruth. It’s Nelson.’

‘I know.’ She sounds irritated. He dimly realises that this might not be a convenient time to call.

‘Sorry. Are you teaching? Lecturing?’

‘No. I’m just getting into the car.’

‘Late start?’

‘No. I met my friend in Walsingham.’

‘Is that the friend who received these letters?’

‘Yes. Is something the matter? It’s just that I’ve got to get back to the university. I’ve got a tutorial in half an hour.’

‘There’s something in the letters that worries me. Have you spoken to Cathbad recently?’

‘No. I was going to call in on him and Judy on the way home tonight.’

‘Well, on the night that Chloe Jenkins was murdered, Cathbad was house-sitting in Walsingham. He was staying at a cottage attached to the church, St Simeon’s. Anyway, he went out at about nine to call the cat in and he saw a woman standing in the graveyard. A woman wearing a white dress and a blue cloak.’

‘What? Oh . . . There’s something in the letters about a woman wearing blue.’

‘“She stands before you, clad in blue, weeping for the world”,’ quotes Nelson. ‘It’s a bit of a coincidence isn’t it? When Chloe was found she was wearing a white nightdress and a blue dressing gown. Keep that bit of information to yourself, though.’

‘She was a patient at the Sanctuary, wasn’t she? That much was in the papers.’

‘Yes. Poor kid. I don’t like coincidences, as you know. I think I need to talk to your friend.’

‘But the letters were all written before Christmas. How could the writer know about Cathbad’s vision? I bet Cathbad thought it was a vision, didn’t he?’

‘Of course he did. But what I’m thinking is that there may be this madman wandering about Walsingham, incensed about women in general, obsessed with the Virgin Mary. The sight of a woman dressed in blue might have driven him over the edge.’

‘But why would he kill her? Wouldn’t he be more likely to fall on his knees and worship her?’

‘Madmen do mad things, Ruth, as we both know.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to speak to your friend. What’s her name?’

‘Hilary Smithson. She’s staying at the conference centre.’