Read Online The Janus Stone by Elly Griffiths - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elly Griffiths
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After a while she wandered off and Martin went to find her. That was the last I saw of him. Then one of the sisters rang the bell for bedtime and they were nowhere to be seen.'
'What happened next?'
'Father Hennessey went out to search. Then he must have called the police. I remember being interviewed, being asked when I last saw Martin and Elizabeth. The police were around for a few weeks, asking everyone questions. I remember Sister Immaculata being angry because they interrupted us when we were saying the rosary. Then everything went back to normal. We still prayed for Martin and Elizabeth but we didn't really talk about them. We forgot. You know what kids are like.'
'When the police were at SHCH, do you remember them searching the grounds? Digging?'
'No,' says Davies slowly, 'I don't remember them digging.' He looks up suddenly. 'Is that what all this is about? Have you found a body?'
'I'm not at liberty to say,' says Nelson.
'They're knocking it down, aren't they?' says Davies. 'I walked past the site the other day.'
'They're developing it, yes.'
'It's a shame. It was a lovely house. Like a mansion, I always thought.'
'Yes.' Nelson looks at Clough. 'Mr Davies, would you be prepared to come to the site and look around? You might be able to tell us where things were. Which rooms were which, that sort of thing.'
'Yes,' says Davies, 'I'd be happy to.'
He gets up to leave, shaking hands with both policemen. At the door, Clough asks, 'You say Father Hennessey got you an apprenticeship. What trade was that?'
Kevin Davies smiles, the creases in his face turning upwards. 'Oh, I thought you knew. I'm an undertaker.'
Judy Johnson is pushing a wheelchair along Southport seafront. The tide is out and the sand stretches into the far distance, bands of gold and white and silver, dotted with tiny figures carrying nets and buckets. As she watches, three racehorses canter into view, their necks arching as they fight their bits, the sand flying up behind them. Judy stops for a second and Sister Immaculata turns and says, 'Red Rum was trained here. Did you know that?'
'No.'
'I had a bet on him in 1976. That was the year he came second. Typical.'
'Was it each way?' asks Judy, a bookie's daughter.
'No, on the nose. Typical.'
The horses are galloping now, stretching out joyfully across the sand, manes and tails flying. The jockeys hover over their necks, seemingly balanced in mid-air. Judy had wanted to be a jockey once. Before she got interested in boys.
The old people's home turns out to be a convent that looks after aging nuns. The sister in charge suggested that Judy take Sister Immaculata out 'for a walk'.
'That way she'll get fresh air and you can have some privacy.' A mixture of kindness and absolute authority that Judy remembers from her own (convent) schooldays.
Judy stops by a bench, puts the brakes on the wheelchair and goes to sit beside the elderly nun. She knows from the police records that Sister Immaculata (real name: Orla McKinley) is seventy-five but the veil covering her hair and her high-necked habit serve to mask the most obvious signs of age. Her face is curiously unlined, the blue eyes still sharp. Only the hand, pointing now at Southport Pier, betrays its owner's age. It's a mummy's hand, skeletal and misshapen.
'Sister Immaculata,' begins Judy, 'you worked at the Sacred Heart Children's Home from 1960 to 1980.'
'It wasn't work, it was a vocation,' says the nun sharply.
'I'm sorry. But you were resident at the home?'
'Yes.'
'What sort of a place was it?'
Sister Immaculata is silent, looking out over the miles of pale sand. But Judy notes that her hands are shaking slightly. Age? Infirmity? Or fear?
'It was a beautiful house. Lovely grounds. The sort of place where you can't imagine bad things happening.'
Judy holds her breath. She mustn't mess this up. The boss expects her to get results. That's why she has been sent instead of Clough, who'd probably have accused the nun of satanic abuse by
'What happened next?'
'Father Hennessey went out to search. Then he must have called the police. I remember being interviewed, being asked when I last saw Martin and Elizabeth. The police were around for a few weeks, asking everyone questions. I remember Sister Immaculata being angry because they interrupted us when we were saying the rosary. Then everything went back to normal. We still prayed for Martin and Elizabeth but we didn't really talk about them. We forgot. You know what kids are like.'
'When the police were at SHCH, do you remember them searching the grounds? Digging?'
'No,' says Davies slowly, 'I don't remember them digging.' He looks up suddenly. 'Is that what all this is about? Have you found a body?'
'I'm not at liberty to say,' says Nelson.
'They're knocking it down, aren't they?' says Davies. 'I walked past the site the other day.'
'They're developing it, yes.'
'It's a shame. It was a lovely house. Like a mansion, I always thought.'
'Yes.' Nelson looks at Clough. 'Mr Davies, would you be prepared to come to the site and look around? You might be able to tell us where things were. Which rooms were which, that sort of thing.'
'Yes,' says Davies, 'I'd be happy to.'
He gets up to leave, shaking hands with both policemen. At the door, Clough asks, 'You say Father Hennessey got you an apprenticeship. What trade was that?'
Kevin Davies smiles, the creases in his face turning upwards. 'Oh, I thought you knew. I'm an undertaker.'
Judy Johnson is pushing a wheelchair along Southport seafront. The tide is out and the sand stretches into the far distance, bands of gold and white and silver, dotted with tiny figures carrying nets and buckets. As she watches, three racehorses canter into view, their necks arching as they fight their bits, the sand flying up behind them. Judy stops for a second and Sister Immaculata turns and says, 'Red Rum was trained here. Did you know that?'
'No.'
'I had a bet on him in 1976. That was the year he came second. Typical.'
'Was it each way?' asks Judy, a bookie's daughter.
'No, on the nose. Typical.'
The horses are galloping now, stretching out joyfully across the sand, manes and tails flying. The jockeys hover over their necks, seemingly balanced in mid-air. Judy had wanted to be a jockey once. Before she got interested in boys.
The old people's home turns out to be a convent that looks after aging nuns. The sister in charge suggested that Judy take Sister Immaculata out 'for a walk'.
'That way she'll get fresh air and you can have some privacy.' A mixture of kindness and absolute authority that Judy remembers from her own (convent) schooldays.
Judy stops by a bench, puts the brakes on the wheelchair and goes to sit beside the elderly nun. She knows from the police records that Sister Immaculata (real name: Orla McKinley) is seventy-five but the veil covering her hair and her high-necked habit serve to mask the most obvious signs of age. Her face is curiously unlined, the blue eyes still sharp. Only the hand, pointing now at Southport Pier, betrays its owner's age. It's a mummy's hand, skeletal and misshapen.
'Sister Immaculata,' begins Judy, 'you worked at the Sacred Heart Children's Home from 1960 to 1980.'
'It wasn't work, it was a vocation,' says the nun sharply.
'I'm sorry. But you were resident at the home?'
'Yes.'
'What sort of a place was it?'
Sister Immaculata is silent, looking out over the miles of pale sand. But Judy notes that her hands are shaking slightly. Age? Infirmity? Or fear?
'It was a beautiful house. Lovely grounds. The sort of place where you can't imagine bad things happening.'
Judy holds her breath. She mustn't mess this up. The boss expects her to get results. That's why she has been sent instead of Clough, who'd probably have accused the nun of satanic abuse by
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