Линда Ла Плант - Unholy Murder

Glancing around, Jane couldn’t see anyone, but noticed the cut-out cross on top of a confessional box had some light shining through it from a small electric bulb. The curtains on each side of the box were closed. Walking towards it, she heard the muffled sound of voices coming from inside. Not wanting to disturb anyone, or hear the actual confession, she moved out of hearing to wait at the back of the church. A couple of minutes later, a young woman carrying a small baby in her arms exited the box and hurried out of the church with her head down. It was obvious to Jane she was in a distressed state and had been crying. Jane felt an instinctive impulse to ask the woman if she was all right, but realising the circumstances and surroundings said nothing.

She walked over to the confessional box. ‘Excuse me, Father, I wonder if I could have a word with you,’ she asked through the closed curtain.

‘Please, enter the confessional box and confess your sins to Almighty God, my child,’ he said with a slight foreign accent.

Jane thought he might be Italian. She wasn’t quite sure what to do and, fearing she might alarm the priest, didn’t open the curtain he was behind. She stepped into the confessional booth, sat down, and held her warrant card up to the mesh.

‘Sorry, Father, but I’m not here for confession. I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison from Bromley CID. I’d like to speak with you about an incident I’m dealing with.’

‘Have you found the lead that was stolen from the church roof?’ he asked.

‘Not personally, Father, and to be honest that’s not what I need to speak with you about.’

He sighed. ‘Pity. The police officer I reported the theft to thought the local gypsies might be responsible. I was hoping the lead would be recovered and save the church the cost of replacing it. How can I help you, Sergeant Tennison?’

‘I don’t wish to appear rude, but could we speak face to face outside the confessional box?’

He laughed. ‘Of course.’ Pulling back the curtain, he stepped out at the same time as Jane.

Jane had expected a small, elderly man and was surprised to see he was in his mid-thirties and about six feet tall. He was slim and handsome, with dark, swept-back hair, olive skin and almond-shaped brown eyes. He wore a neatly fitting black priest’s suit, which accentuated his athletic build, a black shirt and white dog collar. A purple stole, with embroidered gold crosses and golden tassels on each end, hung from his neck.

He held out his hand.

‘I’m Father Christopher Floridia, but everyone calls me Father Chris.’

Jane shook his hand. ‘Is that an Italian accent?’ she asked.

He laughed. ‘No, I’m Maltese.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ Jane said.

‘No apology needed. People often think I’m Italian when they hear me speak.’

Jane was relieved he wasn’t offended, recalling her father once telling her the Italians, under Mussolini, had dropped a barrage of bombs on Malta in 1940. She told Father Floridia about the unearthing of the coffin at the old convent building site, and how it was being taken to the mortuary to be opened.

‘I was wondering if you could help me with the correct procedure if there is a body inside the coffin, and who I need to inform within the Church.’

‘I’ve never actually dealt with anything like that before,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’d imagine, as the coffin was found on the grounds of the old Catholic convent, there would need to be a reburial.’

‘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.’

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.