‘Seventy-five!’ Nelson had echoed, when Edward Spens had told him. ‘Seventy-five luxury rabbit hutches more like.’
Edward Spens had, of course, been on the phone as soon as Nelson and Clough had got back to the station. He’d been very cordial and full of phrases like ‘my duty as a citizen’ but had, nevertheless, managed to drop in a few mentions of his very good friend Gerry Whitcliffe and the city’s need for new housing, job creation, urban redevelopment la di da di da.
‘I appreciate your frustration, sir,’ Nelson had said, ‘but you must understand that we have a suspected murder enquiry.’
‘Murder?’ Spens had sounded shocked as Nelson had meant him to be. ‘But those bones could be hundreds of years old. That archaeologist chap Ted was telling me that there used to be a medieval churchyard on the site.’
‘That’s as maybe, sir. I’ve got Dr Ruth Galloway from the university examining the bones now. I’m hoping that in a few days she’ll be able to give me an approximate date.’
‘This Ruth Galloway, is she the best person? I know Phil Trent up at the university. He might be able to get us someone more… senior.’
‘Dr Galloway is head of forensic archaeology,’ Nelson replied stiffly, ‘and an acknowledged expert on bones.’ Ruth always claims that this makes her sound like a sniffer dog but, for the present, Spens seemed satisfied.
Spens is losing money, Nelson reflects, not without satisfaction, as he turns off the M25 towards Gatwick. Everyone is talking about the property market caving in. Nelson loathes TV programmes about smug yuppies buying and selling houses but even he has gathered that much. All those smug yuppies will soon be saddled with negative equity and serve them right. His own house is mortgaged up to the hilt, of course, but that doesn’t bother him. Nelson was brought up in a council house. For him, a mortgage is a sign of respectability.
But, even so, Spens had better start building quickly or there will be no one left to buy his luxury apartments. Luxury! Nelson snorts as he overtakes a coach loaded with German tourists. Where there was once one, admittedly large, house, now there will be seventy-five soulless shoe-boxes. It’s not his definition of luxury. Actually, he’s not sure he possesses one.
Father Patrick Hennessey lives in a church-run ‘retreat’ in West Sussex. He explains on the phone that this is a sort of retirement placing for priests. ‘People come here for a week or even just for a few days, to recharge their spiritual batteries. I wander around asking them if they want to talk to a priest and, when they say no, I wander off again.’ Nice work if you can get it, thinks Nelson. It is a beautiful May morning, the fields lush and green, the trees heavy with blossom. As he drives past yet another rose-strewn cottage, Nelson reflects how much he prefers this countryside to Norfolk. Everything is contained: a single oak stands in a gated field, flint cottages surround a pond, gentle hills form perfect framing devices for picturesque villages. There is no threatening expanse of sky, none of the windswept desolation that he so dislikes about his adopted county. Even so, you’d need a ton of money to live here. The villages are heavy on antique shops and low on fast-food outlets. He has to weave his way through a slalom of BMWs, Porsches and shiny Land Rovers. Definitely a cushy retirement billet.
‘Can’t stand the place,’ says Father Patrick Hennessey cheerfully, stomping out over the smooth green lawn to shake Nelson heartily by the hand.
The strength of the handshake does not surprise Nelson. He has met priests like this before; burly, red-faced Irishmen who look more like ex-boxers than clerics. Hennessey is elderly, seventies Nelson reckons, and walks with a stick, but he has a definite physical presence, with shoulders as broad as Nelson’s own, a white crew cut and a nose that has clearly been broken several times.
‘Why not?’ asks Nelson as they walk towards a shady seat overlooking the rose garden. ‘Seems a beautiful spot to me.’
‘Beautiful,’ says Hennessey gloomily, ‘yes, I suppose so. But it bores the hell out of me. People talk about seeing God’s hand in nature but, in my opinion, when you’ve seen one tree you’ve seen them all. Now, when I see a beautiful building and I think of how God has given man the wits to build it, that’s worth celebrating. Have you seen the Gherkin in London? Pure poetry.’
‘I’m a city boy myself,’ says Nelson cautiously, ‘but buildings don’t make me think about God exactly.’
Hennessey gives him a rather sharp look. His eyes are very light blue in a weather-beaten face. Intelligent eyes, watchful eyes. And, like his handshake, not particularly gentle.
He lowers himself onto the bench and stretches one leg stiffly in front of him. ‘So, Detective Chief Inspector Nelson, you said you wanted to talk to me about SHCH.’
Sacred Heart Children’s Home, Nelson works out silently. He hates acronyms. Whitcliffe, of course, loves them.
‘Yes,’ he says brusquely, ‘as you may know, the site is being developed. The plan is to build a number of luxury apartments.’
‘Dear God.’
‘And in the course of the building work a discovery has been made. A body. Skeleton to be precise, buried under the main doorway. It looks to be that of a child.’
Nelson pauses. Silence, as any policemen knows, is the best way to get information.
But Hennessey, it seems, knows the same trick. He fixes Nelson with his cool, light-blue stare. For a few seconds, neither speaks. An elderly couple walk slowly past them and disappear through a rose-smothered archway.
‘We’re examining the bones now,’ says Nelson, admitting defeat. ‘It’s possible they predate the home, of course.’
‘It’s an ancient site, I understand,’ says Hennessey. ‘I had always heard that there was a church there once. I believe it had the reputation of curing lepers.’
A church. That archaeologist bloke had said a churchyard but, of course, it stands to reason that there would be a church there too. Also that, to Hennessey, the church would be the important factor.
‘Our forensic archaeology team,’ says Nelson, thinking that this is a rather grand way of describing Ruth, Trace and Irish Ted, ‘believe that the grave was dug fairly recently. Maybe when the doorway was put in place.’
‘The house was old in my time,’ says Father Hennessey mildly, ‘but I assume that you suspect the body was placed there within living memory.’
‘I assume nothing,’ says Nelson. ‘Just wondered if, during your years as principal, you ever had a child go missing. Or anything,’ he adds after a pause.
Hennessey gets up. ‘Let’s walk,’ he says. ‘I get stiff if I sit too long.’
They walk through the archway and between the raised flower beds. Hennessey lets his hand drift amongst the velvety blossoms. ‘Stupid things,’ he says. ‘Could never see the point of flowers.’
Nelson does the silent trick again and this time is successful. After a few hundred yards, Hennessey says, ‘Let’s get this straight, Detective Chief Inspector, there was never any abuse at SHCH when I was there. You can ask anyone. I’m still in touch with many of our former residents. They’ve all got good memories of their time with us. I know the fashion is to look for abuse wherever you see a Catholic priest but, in this instance, you will look in vain.’ He stops, frowning at a particularly vivid pink rose which is swarming up a low stone wall. ‘Nevertheless…’
Now we’re getting to it, thinks Nelson, careful to keep his face expressionless.
‘Nevertheless…’ Hennessey sighs. ‘Two children did go missing when I was principal. A boy and a girl. There was a huge search but we never found them. I’ve often wondered…’ His voice drifts off.
‘What were their names?’ Nelson gets out his notebook.
‘Black. Martin and Elizabeth Black.’