Unholy Murder Page 3

  ‘And who should I speak to about that?’

  ‘Our South-East area bishop should be informed. He may want to inform the archbishop as well.’

  ‘Can I have their names please?’ Jane asked, getting out her notebook and pen.

  ‘The bishop is Robert Meade and Andrew Malone is the archbishop of Southwark.’

  ‘And how would I go about contacting them?’

  ‘The diocesan head office is at Archbishop’s House in St George’s Road, Southwark. The archbishop is currently visiting the Vatican, helping to organise Pope John Paul II’s forthcoming visit to the UK.’

  ‘I never realised churches in Bromley would come under Southwark,’ Jane remarked.

  ‘The archdiocese covers a wide area of London, Kent and Surrey. There are 180 parishes in it.’

  ‘Do you know much about the old convent?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Not really. I only became the parish priest here ten months ago. I was told the Sisters of Mercy nuns lived and worked at the convent from the mid-1800s until the mid-sixties, then a local man bought it and built a load of flats.’

  ‘Why did the Church sell the convent?’ Jane asked.

  ‘One of my regular Sunday worshippers told me that during the early sixties the number of nuns slowly declined, and the convent became unmanageable for the few that remained. Eventually escalating running costs meant they had to move out.’

  ‘Would the convent land have been consecrated when it was first built?’

  ‘I’d have thought the church and any graveyard land would have been.’

  ‘Sorry if this sounds like a silly question, but what exactly is consecrated ground according to the Catholic faith?’

  ‘Catholic burials are steeped in tradition, with specific rules that date back thousands of years. Our doctrine requires human remains be buried in consecrated ground, or ground blessed by a bishop and deemed an appropriate final resting place by the Church.’

  ‘We haven’t found any indication that the coffin was in a communal cemetery,’ Jane said.

  ‘What sort of coffin was it?’

  ‘No name plate, grey metal, with a large inlaid silver cross on top and about six to seven feet long.’

  ‘A priest or bishop might be buried in that type of coffin. Nuns are usually buried in a wooden coffin, but that’s just conjecture on my part.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Father, as a detective I’m often guilty of conjecture myself. Quite a bit of digging work has already been done by the developer and no other coffins or headstones have been found on the land . . . as yet.’

  ‘If any nuns or priests were buried on the convent grounds then they’d probably have had a small wooden or metal cross in the ground to remember them by. Headstones are too expensive. It’s also possible any nuns who died at the convent were reburied in another graveyard on consecrated ground.’

  ‘Would it be local?’

  ‘Possibly. St Luke’s, Magpie Hall Lane, is the nearest cemetery.’

  Jane made a note. ‘There’s one last thing. I wondered, if the coffin is empty, who should I restore it to?’

  ‘If it’s helpful, I can speak with Bishop Meade for you. I’m sure he’ll know a lot more than me about the old convent and what should be done with the coffin and its contents.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that. Is there a phone number I can contact you on to let you know if there is, or isn’t, a body in the coffin?’

  ‘I don’t know it by memory yet, I’m afraid. The presbytery is next door; I’ll go and get it for you.’

  ‘Is it in the phone book?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Don’t worry. I can look it up when I’m back in the office. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Father Chris, and thanks for all your help.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He smiled. ‘I look forward to hearing more about your mysterious coffin.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As it was half past eleven, and her house in Oakdene Avenue was nearby, Jane decided to nip home, have a wash, and change out of her muddy shoes and tights before going to Queen Mary’s Hospital.

  Jane had recently bought the two-bedroom property for £25,000. It was cheap because it needed a lot of work done on it, which, at present, she couldn’t afford to do. However, she looked on modernising and decorating it as a long-term project. Above all, she was pleased to have a house of her own with a nice, if small, garden.

  Arriving home, the first thing she did was phone DI Stanley.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  Jane said she was at home, then recounted how Boon had knocked her over at the building site and being covered in mud she needed to change her clothes.

  Stanley laughed. ‘I wish I’d been there to see that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t funny for me. Boon’s a walking disaster zone,’ she replied before telling Stanley about the coffin being taken to the mortuary.

  ‘If the coffin’s empty, you’ve wasted ‘job’ money by calling out the undertakers and arranging a post-mortem. You could have opened it at the site to save time and money.’

  ‘I didn’t feel it was appropriate to look inside it on the site,’ she countered. ‘What do I do if there is a body in it?’

  ‘Under the coroner’s rules, a pathologist has to do a routine examination before it can be released for burial, and they won’t do it for free!’ he told her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that would be the case.’

  ‘What time are they opening the coffin?’

  ‘One o’clock. I was going to go to Queen Mary’s straight from here. Will you be attending the mortuary?’

  ‘No, I won’t. I’ve better things to do,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘I spoke with the local priest, Father Christopher Floridia. He’s helping me regarding the correct religious procedure, and he said—’

  ‘I’m not interested in what he has to say! Body or no body in that coffin, hand the bloody case over to the coroner’s officer and he can deal with it,’ Stanley barked before putting the phone down.

  Jane was annoyed at how disrespectful Stanley had been – not just to her but also to Father Chris, who was only trying to help. She went to her bedroom to change her clothes and looking in her dressing-table mirror noticed a smear of mud on her face. She felt mortified realising it must have been there when she met Father Chris and he hadn’t said anything so as not to embarrass her. She also knew Boon must have seen the mud and deliberately failed to mention it just because she’d told him to stay at the building site.

  Having washed and changed, Jane made a cheese and tomato sandwich, which she ate with a packet of crisps and a mug of hot chocolate. Sitting at her breakfast bar, she looked up the phone number for St Mary’s Church in the phone book and jotted it down in her notebook. She looked forward to meeting Father Chris again and wondered if she should call him and let him know that her DI wanted a coroner’s officer to deal with the case and not her. She picked up the phone, started to dial, then put it down, deciding she would visit him at the church and tell him personally after the coffin was opened.

  *

  Arriving at Queen Mary’s Hospital Jane went to the coroner’s staff office, next to the mortuary. The cramped, rundown office had two desks facing each other and a chalkboard on the wall. On the board was a list of deceased people, cause and date of death and their fridge numbers. Jane noticed some blood-stained mortuary overalls on a coat stand and white mortuary boots next to it, which made the room smell like a mixture of death and disinfectant. A swarthy, chubby man in his late forties was sitting at a desk typing, whilst puffing on a cigarette that was hanging out of his mouth. His brown two-piece suit was badly creased and ill-fitting. A black tie hung loosely round his neck and the top button of his white shirt was undone.

  Jane introduced herself and said she was dealing with the coffin discovered on the old convent grounds.

  ‘I’m PC Roger Rogers, the coroner’s officer,’ he said with the cigarette still in his mouth. A
lump of ash fell onto his desk. He brushed it off and onto the floor.

  ‘My DI has asked that the case be handed over to a coroner’s officer as it’s not really a CID matter,’ Jane said.

  Rogers raised his eyes in disapproval. ‘It’s not for a DI to decide what happens next, it’s up to the coroner after I’ve appraised him of the results of the coffin examination.’

  ‘I’ve got the details of the local priest who’s happy to speak with his bishop and assist regarding any reburial and restoration of the coffin to the church,’ Jane told him.

  ‘Having been a coroner’s officer for many years, I am aware of the necessary procedures in cases like this,’ he said tartly.

  Jane decided to ignore his confrontational tone. ‘Has the coffin arrived?’ she asked.

  He continued typing. ‘It’s in the mortuary examination room, as is your colleague DC Boon.’

  What a pompous little man, Jane thought, turning to walk out the door.

  ‘No need to rush,’ he said. ‘The pathologist is running late.’

  ‘Is it Professor Martin?’ Jane asked, having worked with him on previous murder investigations.

  Rogers sighed. ‘No, it’s Dr Pullen.’

  She picked up on his uneasiness. ‘I’ve not met him before. Is there a problem?’

  Rogers frowned. ‘She’s a woman, and about to be fully registered as London’s first female forensic pathologist. Personally, I think it’s a bit early to let her go solo.’

  Jane could tell by his tone he was a chauvinist. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything. If Dr Pullen was trained by the renowned Professor Martin, I’ve no doubt she will be as good at the job as her male counterparts,’ she said.

  ‘That remains to be seen, love,’ he smirked.

  Jane had had enough of Rogers’ attitude. ‘I’m not your “love”, PC Rogers, I’m a sergeant and that makes me your superior officer . . . and as such I prefer to be addressed as sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sarge,’ Rogers said, with a mock salute and look of disdain, before going back to his typing.

  At that moment a woman appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily and wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with a tissue. ‘Sorry I’m late, PC Rogers. I’ve just run all the way up the hill from Sidcup railway station.’ She paused for breath. ‘Bloody hell, I’m knackered . . . and there was me thinking I was reasonably fit.’ She turned to Jane. ‘I’m Dr Samantha Pullen, but everyone calls me Sam or Sammy.’ Pullen was in her late thirties, about five foot seven, thickset, with dark collar-length bob and a straight fringe. She had green eyes, a round face and wore red lipstick, which accentuated her rosy cheeks and broad smile.

  Jane thought Pullen looked rather trendy in her burgundy raincoat and matching Baker Boy hat.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison from Bromley CID. Congratulations on your forthcoming appointment as a Home Office forensic pathologist.’

  ‘Thank you, Jane. I’ve a couple of weeks to go yet . . . hopefully I won’t screw up before then,’ she added with a big smile.

  Rogers stood up, took two stained mortuary gowns from the coat stand and handed one to Jane. ‘Right, let’s get this coffin open.’

  ‘I’m fine without the gown, thank you,’ Jane replied, putting the gown back and wiping her hand on the side of her skirt.

  He shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’

  ‘I’ll just nip to the mortuary technician’s locker room to get changed, then we’re good to go,’ Pullen said.

  Jane followed Rogers to the examination room where Boon was leaning on a work surface, reading a newspaper while eating a Mars Bar.

  ‘Food is not supposed to be eaten in here, DC Boon,’ Rogers barked, scowling at the resident mortuary technician, Jack, for allowing it to happen.

  Jane thought this rather rich coming from someone who was wearing a dirty blood-stained gown that he kept in his office.

  The coffin was on an adjustable examination table and Jane went and stood beside Boon. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Boony.’

  He looked alarmed. ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘It’s what you didn’t do.’ She touched her face where the mud had been.

  ‘Sorry, I thought you were going straight back to the station.’

  ‘You’re lucky I saw the funny side of it,’ she said, half-smiling. ‘But remember, revenge is a dish best served cold.’

  *

  ‘Right, let’s get started,’ Dr Pullen said as she entered the room, now wearing protective clothing and carrying a clipboard and pen. ‘I just need everyone’s names for the records, please.’

  Boon’s eyes lit up. ‘Nice-looking for a mortuary technician,’ he whispered to Jane.

  ‘PC Rogers, Jack the mortuary technician and DS Tennison I already know.’ Pullen looked at Boon. ‘And you are . . .?’

  Boon who was still admiring Pullen’s figure didn’t hear her question. Jane nudged him with her elbow. He stood straighter, and puffed out his chest.

  ‘Detective Constable Simon Boon, Bromley CID. I accompanied the coffin from the building site to the mortuary. I am also assisting DS Tennison with this case and will perform the role of exhibits officer.’

  ‘Good for you, Simon,’ Pullen said with a wry smile.

  ‘May I say how refreshing it is to meet a lady mortuary technician,’ he said. ‘You must have a strong stomach for this job.’

  ‘I’m not a mortuary technician,’ she said, still smiling.

  Boon looked confused. ‘Oh . . . are you a coroner’s officer?’

  ‘No. I’m Dr Samantha Pullen, a forensic pathologist.’

  Boon flushed and mumbled an apology.

  ‘I’m so sorry, doctor . . . I didn’t realise . . . I was expecting a man . . . I mean Professor Martin.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to live up to your expectations, DC Boon,’ she said, not smiling anymore.

  Pullen put her clipboard down on a work surface then picked up a mortuary hammer and chisel. She looked at Boon with a steely expression. ‘These should do.’

  ‘Do for what?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Opening the coffin.’

  As Dr Pullen lowered the examination table, Boon whispered to Jane, ‘Why didn’t you tell me she was the pathologist?’

  ‘Remember what I said about revenge,’ Jane replied. ‘And by the way, your chat-up lines are awful.’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’

  ‘Blindingly!’

  ‘Right, let’s unseal this coffin,’ Pullen said.

  ‘What’s it sealed with?’ Boon asked Pullen, but Rogers answered.

  ‘Metal coffins are normally sealed with a rubber gasket that goes all the way around the edge of the lid. The sealing clasps then lock the lid in place.’ He pointed to one. ‘And the rubber gasket forms a tight seal that prevents air and moisture from getting in.’

  ‘So, if there’s a body in there it might be in good condition?’ Boon asked.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Pullen said. ‘Sealing a casket won’t prevent a body from decomposing, even if it’s been embalmed.’

  Pullen undid the clasps, then put the chisel in between the two halves and gave it a knock with the hammer. To her surprise, the chisel slid in easily. ‘Looks like the rubber seal has degraded.’ She pushed the handle of the chisel down, and the top of the coffin started to open. ‘Although it may be heavier than it looks, I think this lid will come off fairly easily.’ She looked at PC Rogers and Boon. ‘Can you give us a hand to lift it off, please? The protective gloves are over there.’

  Boon was worried about his clothes. ‘Have you got a spare overall?’

  Jane frowned. ‘I’ll help,’ she said, putting on a pair of latex gloves.

  They stood round the coffin, one at each end and two in the middle, waiting for Pullen’s order.

  ‘One, two, three . . . lift.’

  Boon inched forward, eager to see what was inside as they put the lid on the mo
rtuary floor.

  ‘Jesus, that stinks of rancid cheese!’ Boon exclaimed, putting his hand to his mouth and starting to retch.

  ‘Don’t be so squeamish, it’s just a dead body,’ Rogers scoffed.

  ‘Dead bodies don’t bother me, I just hate cheese!’ Boon retched again.

  ‘If you’re going to be sick, do it in the sink,’ barked a stern-faced Rogers.

  Jane thought it strange the body didn’t smell of decay and rotting flesh as she’d expected. The face looked gruesome, yet fascinating. The skin was shrivelled and cracked, with a chalky white, almost yellowish colour to it with flecks of grey. There were empty sockets where the eyes had once been, but the mouth was eerily wide open revealing an intact set of teeth. The cracked and shrivelled hands were clasped together. A rosary with a small wooden cross was wrapped around the right hand.

  Parts of the clothing were disintegrating and discoloured, but it was clear the body was dressed in a black ankle-length gown and black lace-up shoes. A black veil covered the head and shoulders, with a stiff white wimple under it. The wimple was tight under the chin and hung in a semi-circle below the neck. Tied around the waist was a brown cord with tassels on each end. The interior of the coffin was lined with satin, which was now covered in mildew and a dirty grey colour.

  ‘It looks like the body of a nun from the clothing,’ Jane remarked.

  Pullen nodded. ‘I agree, though I will have to confirm it by further examination.’

  Boon laughed. ‘Imagine if . . .’

  ‘Imagine what?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Imagine if it turned out to be a transvestite priest! That would raise a few eyebrows at the Vatican,’ Boon grinned. ‘Then again, maybe not.’

  ‘I expected a corpse that would be badly decomposed, but in fact the face and hands look almost mummified,’ Jane remarked.

  Pullen was about to explain the phenomenon when a smug-looking PC Rogers interjected.

  ‘It’s due to adipocere on the body, which can occur in sealed coffins when no air can get in.’

  Pullen picked up her clipboard and pen. ‘That’s a very astute observation, especially as it’s a condition that’s quite rare to observe.’