The Janus Stone

Two black crows in the garden. My lucky number in the date. An even number of pips in my breakfast grapefruit. When I sacrificed (a blackbird) the head came off sweetly, easily, and the blood ran swiftly into the earth, forming the letter S. S for Sacrifice. A very good omen.

CHAPTER 28

At nine o’clock sharp, full of a Full English Breakfast, Judy Johnson presents herself at the convent. She is told that Sister Immaculata is feeling slightly better and that she can see Judy in fifteen minutes ‘when we’ve tidied her up a bit’. Dreading to think what this entails, Judy sits down to wait in the reception area, beside a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary, eyes rolling ecstatically up to heaven.

‘Good morning, Miss Johnson.’ It is the Sister, all starched veil and professional kindness.

‘Detective Constable Johnson,’ says Judy.

‘I beg your pardon.’ Titles are important, thinks Judy. The Sister would lose all her authority if addressed as Miss Whatever, would become just another middle-aged woman in a funny outfit. But as Sister Mary of the Sacred Heart she has power, albeit of a rather specialised kind.

‘Sister?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wonder… could you tell me… what is wrong with Sister Immaculata?’

‘Wrong?’ The Sister raises her eyebrows. ‘She has cancer, Detective Constable Johnson. Inoperable. She has months, maybe weeks, to live.’

This time, Judy interviews Sister Immaculata in a conservatory overlooking a windswept rock garden. The nun is perceptibly weaker, her breath rattling in her chest, her hands shaking. Only her eyes remain alert – they regard Judy with suspicion, even, perhaps, fear.

‘Detective Constable Judy Johnson,’ Judy introduces herself. ‘Do you remember me?’

‘Of course I do. I’m not daft, you know.’ Judy is rather relieved to hear the aggression in the old woman’s voice. It will make her task easier.

‘Sister Immaculata, your real name is Orla McKinley. Is that right?’

A pause. ‘Depends what you mean by “real”.’

‘Your baptismal name.’

‘Yes. What of it?’

‘In 1951 you were living with the Spens family on Woolmarket Street.’

Another, longer pause. Sister Immaculata twists the ever-present rosary tightly around her hand. In the rock garden two seagulls fight over a crust of bread.

‘I was working there as a nanny,’ Sister Immaculata says at last.

‘Annabelle Spens’ nanny?’

‘Yes.’

‘Annabelle died in 1952, didn’t she?’

Sister Immaculata looks at her but says nothing. The rosary beads are still.

‘Did you stay on after Annabelle died?’

‘Yes. They were kind. They let me stay.’

‘Did you look after Roderick?’

‘Roderick was fourteen. Hardly a child.’

‘Sister Immaculata…’ Judy leans forward. She knows everything depends on getting this old, dying woman to speak to her. She puts all her persuasive powers into her next words, even offering up a prayer for good measure. Please God, let her tell me the truth. ‘Sister Immaculata, we found a little girl’s body buried under the front door. I need you to tell me, is there any way that the body could be Annabelle’s? Please. It’s very important.’

At first she thinks that she has failed. Sister Immaculata says nothing and the rosary beads start to move between her fingers. But then, with a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob, the words start to pour out.

‘It was wrong. It was evil. I knew that but I loved him, you see. Strange what a poor excuse that sounds, but I loved him. At the time, that was everything. I covered up for him. I knew it was a sin. A black sin. I’ve tried to atone but the sin catches you up in the end.’

‘Sister,’ Judy presses her hand, ‘what sin? What did you cover up?’

Sister Immaculata looks at her and now her eyes are awash with tears. ‘He killed her,’ she says, ‘and I covered up for him.’

Nelson is not having a good day. His computer has gone Trappist again, Clough has disappeared for a late breakfast or early lunch and Tanya is nowhere to be seen. He wishes Judy were here. She has one outstandingly good quality as a police officer – she is always where you want her to be. Except now, of course, when she’s in bloody Southport. As a child, Nelson once spent a holiday in Southport. Long, wet walks along the seafront, a B and B where you got one slice of toast for breakfast and weren’t allowed to touch any of the thousands of knick-knacks grinning evilly from the shelves. Never again.