Authors: Nadine Dorries
The man who was speaking turned to another disguised man, who was rounder and shorter, as if asking for permission to comment.
‘All organized I tell you; there is no need for concern. She will be sorted in an orderly way. The man who will be taken into custody will be released and, as soon as he is, she will be taken care of. You are all protected.’
A sigh of relief swept across the room.
They all believed him. He was right. One significant breakthrough in the investigation into the murder and it could all come tumbling down. The parent would talk. His child would talk; her friends would talk. There would be digging around and they would all be in danger.
Thank God, no one would know who they were, or what they did. They were free to continue as before.
Stanley wondered what ‘taken care of’ involved. It gave him a thrill. How normal everything sounded and yet, here they were, in a dark and dirty room, discussing a double murder. In their world, this was big time. Now that Stanley was reassured they were not in danger, he found the events exciting rather than threatening.
Austin punched him on the arm and with a grin said, ‘Come on, mate, let’s go. Time for a quick one?’
On the way out Austin whispered to Arthur, ‘Back to our usual time on Saturday, Arthur. I’ve been saving up a stack of camera film I need developing.’
‘Aye,’ said Arthur. ‘Back up and running. We have some great cine film on the projector for you, Stan, see you Sat’day, lads.’
As they turned the corner of the house and walked towards the bus stop, Stanley noticed that two of the men slipped into the back of a car, parked up the road, driven by the chauffeur.
‘Don’t look,’ snapped Arthur. ‘You know that’s not in the rules.’
Ten minutes later they were back in the warmth and bright lights of the pub. Two happy men.
S
IMON KNOCKED ON
the door and waited to be admitted.
He could hear the super talking on the telephone but couldn’t make out what he was saying. He then heard the click as the Bakelite handset was put down and the super called him in.
‘Ah, Simon, my good man. How are things progressing? I take it no one is aware the ladies were downstairs?’
‘No, sir,’ Simon replied. ‘The only people who know are Howard and myself, and one uniformed officer who I believe has received instructions directly from yourself, and the chaperone, Miss Devlin, who is also aware of the need for confidentiality.’
‘Jolly good. Now, what has she said? Is it true she becomes very confused from time to time?’
Simon briefed the super on the interview with Daisy.
When he finished, the super swung round in his new swivel chair and, with his back to Simon, looked out of his window onto the noisy Liverpool street below.
It was rush hour and the traffic was heavy, he noted. People thronged the pavement, rushing and bustling backwards and forwards across the road like mice on the bottom of a cage. Buses queued and jostled to turn the corner. From his window he could hear bells ringing and bus conductors shouting. A constant source of irritation. He loathed the noises of the street. They reminded him of his wartime service, of the distant sound of enemy fire. He loved the peace and quiet of his garden in West Kirkby and resented every hour he spent in Whitechapel.
He turned back to face Simon.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Bring the fellow in for questioning, but don’t arrest him. However, unless he drops an absolute corker, you had better let him go once you have a record on tape. Frankly, an unreliable witness is ten times worse than no witness at all. Neither of us needs the humiliation. We both know that whoever murdered the priest murdered the old woman too, and we know it cannot have been Doherty.
‘If the housekeeper from the Priory struggled when being questioned by you and a chaperone, with kind words and tea, how would she cope with a Liverpool silk, far tougher than any silk from London and that’s a fact?’
Simon nodded. He hadn’t even told the super about Daisy’s ghostly sightings, which would be laughed out of court. If he did, likely he would be laughed out of the super’s office.
‘Go and bring him in now. Do it with the minimum of fuss, there’s a good chap. I will need to speak to the assistant chief constable over this. I’m playing golf with him today and will do it then. Keep the cars on the streets until I report back to you.’
Maura fed the baby in the kitchen while Tommy, in his string vest and long johns, took his shave at the kitchen sink, humming along to the Beatles on the radio. The fire in the range roared its morning high, as if waving its arms in fists of flames at the smog that huddled against the windows.
Only half an hour earlier the kitchen had been quiet and still.
The early light, thick and grey.
Maura thought how this first fire was the best of the day, the strongest, laying down the bed of hot ash for the remainder of the day’s fires to simmer on. She could hear Peggy’s voice through the kitchen wall, shouting to big Paddy to wake up.
She thought how normal everything looked and sounded.
Why then did she feel so restless? What had brought on this feeling of breathlessness? Although the fire roared, she felt cold.
‘Them lads are doing well, aren’t they, queen?’ Tommy said with a nod of acknowledgment at the radio, as he rinsed out his shaving brush under the running cold tap, before shaking it carefully into the Belfast sink and rubbing it hard onto the block of pure white shaving soap in an old chipped cup. ‘Remember when we saw them play in the pub, when Bernadette was alive? They was just kids then.’
‘They still are,’ Maura laughed, lifting the baby onto her shoulder to wind her.
Maura could smell flowers. Strong and heady. Definitely flowers. She put her hand out and pulled it back sharply. Despite the heat from the fire, it had passed through an icy breeze.
In half an hour exactly, she would walk up the stairs to rouse the kids for school and she couldn’t wait to fill the kitchen with the melee of their routine.
‘Aye, I remember that night in the pub with Bernadette,’ she replied in a distracted manner as she rocked the baby from hip to hip. ‘That was the best night out we ever had. The craic, it was fantastic. They were the days, eh, Tommy? What a laugh we used to have. We will never see the Beatles in the flesh again though, never.’
‘We will again, queen. They will be going for years yet, those lads, and will be sure to play in Liverpool loads of times,’ said Tommy, lathering his face in soap. ‘’Tis their home crowd, to be sure they will.’
This time there was no knock on the front door.
Neither of them heard a thing until suddenly the back door was quietly opened by a uniformed officer and Simon stepped into the kitchen. Both Tommy and Maura were stunned.
Simon wasted no time, as the officer took the razor out of Tommy’s hand and passed him the shirt that was hanging on the chair next to the sink.
‘Tommy Doherty, we are taking you down to the station for questioning, in relation to the murder of Father James Cameron.’
Maura tried to put the baby back into her box, but she couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t move. Within seconds, they had gone. Tommy grabbed her hand as he went past and said just two words: ‘Get Jerry.’
They had left the back door open and the wind howled round the kitchen, lifting Tommy’s newspaper up from the table. Maura watched as it floated back down onto the floor.
The wind suddenly slammed the back door shut, startling both Maura and the baby, who began to cry.
‘Sh,’ she said, as she gently rocked her. They stood in the kitchen alone, with only the sound of the radio and the tap still running, pouring cold water all over her day.
Maura ran upstairs, told Angela to wake the kids up and ready for school, then she plopped the baby down on her bed and ran out of the house, down the back entry.
At Peggy’s back gate, the men stood waiting for Big Paddy. Maura just managed to reach Jerry before her knees gave way and buckled beneath her.
‘What the hell is wrong?’ Jerry asked her urgently, but realized at the same time that he already knew, as he shouted to Sean and Big Paddy to run with him to the police station.
‘Pull yerself together and don’t panic,’ Jerry whispered harshly in her ear, as he escorted her back to the gate. ‘They can’t break us or our alibi. Ye have to laugh hard in the face of this, Maura, do ye understand? This has to be the most ridiculous notion the police have ever had and ye have to look as though nothing could bother ye less, because ye know he is an innocent man.’
Maura nodded. ‘Aye, right. I will do that. The feckin’ bastards, how dare they take my husband in.’
Jerry turned back to Maura; he almost laughed at the irony but thought better of it as he made his way to rescue his pal.
And, as if by a miracle, before teatime Tommy walked back into the kitchen with Jerry.
‘They had nothing,’ said Jerry.
‘Aye, he’s right,’ said Tommy. ‘Nothing. Same questions as before with the same answers. Nothing.’
As Maura felt the tightness she had carried around in her chest all day long ease away, she began to cry.
‘Look, Maura,’ said Jerry, ‘stop fretting. If someone saw Tommy murder the priest, or they had a murder weapon, or a motive even, we would worry. But they haven’t, they have nothing.’
‘I have a feeling they will be knocking on for Big Paddy, to take him to the station next,’ said Tommy. ‘Maybe they just need to be seen to be interviewing every male on the street. ’Twas the queerest thing I have ever been through, to be sure. It was as if they wanted not to book me. Some queer posh nob with silver ropes on his jacket shoulder came in and asked me a few questions, but nothing I couldn’t answer. He was more interested in how well I knew Molly and Daisy. Stop crying now, queen,’ he said as he handed Maura the mop. ‘Knock on for the women. If ye don’t, it will look funny. Keep everything normal.’
And Maura did. Within minutes, her kitchen was full.
The neighbours had almost laughed when they heard Tommy had been arrested, assuming the arrest was in connection with the murder of Molly. Each and every one of them knew Tommy Doherty was the softest man on the street. He wouldn’t harm a hair on a dog.
‘’Tis a joke and an act of desperation, all right,’ Peggy had said to Sheila.
‘Tommy Doherty? Even his own kids aren’t scared of him!’
No one knew of the whispered conversation between Maura and Tommy in bed that night.
‘Why did they call you in?’ Maura had asked, terrified of earnest little Harry hearing her. ‘They must know something, so they must, or why have they waited all this time?’
‘I don’t know, Maura, but I do know this. They had nothing, because if they had, I would have been arrested and in front of a magistrate. I don’t want to be bold now, but I’m saying we are safe.’
And from that night on, each day had been lighter.
R
OSIE DID PAY
a visit to see Kitty, just as Reverend Mother had said she would.
One of the nuns collected Kitty from the laundry in the middle of the morning. Kitty was delighted beyond measure to remove her hands from under the cold tap of the huge long sink, in which she rinsed out the carbolic from the dozens of sheets she washed each day.
She walked along the corridor with the nun, rubbing her red hands dry on her calico apron.
Kitty had no idea where she was being taken and assumed it was to Reverend Mother’s office, but as they turned up the stairs to where the girls slept, she realized she was wrong. She was being led to the labour room to be examined.
Sister Assumpta had initially objected to Rosie undertaking a prenatal examination. She held no truck with such things. The Holy Mother had managed without, so why should penitent girls and those with incontinent morals deserve more?
However, Rosie had put her foot down.
‘It is important for Cissy to be familiar with the surroundings she will be birthing in, Sister. I am afraid I must insist.’
Sister Assumpta was keen that Rosie leave with a good impression of the Abbey and laundry, and so with very little grumbling she agreed.
Kitty had never before entered a room that truly terrified her, but this one did. The smell of Lysol assailed her nostrils as soon as she opened the door, reminding her of her hospital stay following the accident. It was the place where the baby in her belly had been conceived, in agony and humiliation.
White and stark, the room was cold, clinical and unwelcoming. It contained no feminine comforts whatsoever. A bed with no headboard stood away from the wall, in the middle of the room, with a pole on each end, with leather straps attached.
Almost at the base of the bed was a hole cut away and tucked underneath, out of sight, was a white enamel bucket with a navy-blue rim. Apart from a white enamel trolley covered with a small snowy-white sheet, and a fully stocked white enamel cabinet with glass doors, the only ornamentation was a plaster sacred heart attached to the wall and a wooden cross above the sink.
The sheets were white. The room was white. Virginal and cold.
Along one wall ran a long and shallow sink with elongated brass taps. Piled on the wooden draining board, folded and ready, lay half a dozen or so grey-looking towels. Not white.
The large small-paned window let in almost too much light and draught. The wooden floor was bare and the air was freezing cold. No Persian carpets in here.
Rosie avoided looking at Kitty as she set down her Gladstone bag on the only wooden chair and took out an apron and some gloves. She snapped the brass clasp shut and turned round with a look of irritation.
‘That will be all now, thank you, Sister,’ Rosie said to the nun. ‘I will examine Kitty, er, sorry, Cissy, and then call you in when the examination is over.’
The labour room was tucked away in what had been an attic, far away from the rest of the house. No nun wanted to be disturbed by the screams of girls in labour, which regularly filled the corridor outside. The only room anywhere near was the girls’ dormitory across the hall.