Vow of Obedience (9 page)

‘You didn’t hear her use the bathroom?’

‘We’ve a little cloakroom next to the kitchen. She uses that in the mornings and has her bath upstairs later on. And she lets herself out through the French windows with her own key. So we never check up. She doesn’t bother with any breakfast, has a coffee and some toast at the back of the shop. I got up and went to work – I’ve a building business – self-employed but not doing so well what with the recession and all. Nancy gets up later. I generally take her a cuppa before I leave.’

‘And nobody from the bread shop rang to ask where Tina was?’

He shook his head. ‘She’d had a bit of a cold so I reckon they thought she’d taken the morning off. There’s another kid there who helps out so they wouldn’t have been stuck. Near lunchtime – no, just after, the police came to ask me to go and take a look for identification purposes. Then I came home and told Nancy.’ His face twisted suddenly with appalling grief. ‘She hadn’t even been into Tina’s room. Usually she went in and had a bit of a tidy round but Tina said she liked looking after things herself so Nancy gave up the habit.’

‘The diary entry? You’ve not shown it to your wife?’

He shook his head again. ‘I only just found it this morning. The police came yesterday to look round. They wanted to search Tina’s room but Nancy took on about that, said she wasn’t having our daughter’s belongings pawed over and they’d have to get a warrant. I told the detective, quiet like, that she’d come round and let them look at whatever they wanted once she was over the first shock, and the detective said not to worry and he’d be by later on sometime. Now I’m thinking he ought to know about the diary but every time I move two yards Nancy’s wanting to know what I’m doing.’

‘I could call in at the station on my way back to the convent and give the diary to the Sergeant,’ she suggested.

‘Seems a bit steep to ask you after what I’ve been saying about religion.’ For the first time he looked uncomfortable.

‘Write me a brief note of authorization and I’ll take it for you.’

‘Very good of you, Sister. Give me a minute.’

He went out, closing the door softly behind him with an ostentatious show of trust.

Sister Joan remained where she was, the plastic cover of the
diary smooth and cool between her hands. Around her the room had the air of having been abandoned for a long time. It was difficult to realize that a young woman had slept here until two days before. Anyone coming in for the first time, not knowing the circumstances, might have identified it as a guest room used by the occasional visitor. Everything was neat, impersonal, with the cover laid smoothly over the divan and cushions plumped up. There was a crucifix on the wall, a row of paperbacks – romances, a couple of poetry books that looked left over from school, some pamphlets from the parish church, a couple of mild thrillers. On the shelf above was a picture of Mother Teresa in a frame and some prettily shaped bottles of unopened perfume.

‘I’ve written a note giving you permission to take the diary.’ Bill Davies was back, handing her a small sheet of paper.

‘I’ll see it gets into the right hands,’ she promised. ‘I know you don’t reckon much to the church but I hope you understand that we all are anxious to do anything we can in this very sad situation.’

‘Can the church catch the swine that lured our daughter away and killed her?’ he asked harshly. ‘In the middle of the night, and her only in her shortie pyjamas and robe and slippers.’

‘You’ve checked her clothes?’

‘Nancy did, when she could bring herself to go into the wardrobe. She looked in on us – Tina, I mean – just before she went to bed. Funny, but she came over and she kissed us both goodnight; we’re not much of a family for hugging and kissing, so it stuck in my mind. She had on her nightclothes. We were clearing away the board for the Scrabble. Kissed us both and then went into her room and closed the door. Until I found that diary I figured she might have had a premonition. Now I reckon she was getting ready to do a bunk with her boy-friend, whoever he is.’

‘You’re possibly right,’ Sister Joan said cautiously. ‘The police will find out the truth of it. Now I’d better go and have another word with your wife. I promised Father Malone I’d stay until he got back from the hospital.’

As they left the room she was relieved to hear the priest’s voice in the hall.

‘A cup of tea would be very welcome, Mrs Davies. And you
look as if you could be using one yourself. Sister Joan, it was good of you to come and stand in for me. The problem these days is that there never seems to be sufficient time to get everything done. If only there were more vocations …’ He sighed and Sister Joan shot him a sympathetic look. The lack of suitable men and women entering the religious life was fairly acute. It was a matter that greatly exercised Mother Dorothy’s thoughts.

‘Goodbye, Father.’ She went past him as he opened the door and stood for a moment, frowning at the crowd which still infested the space beyond the gate.

‘Ghouls, aren’t they?’ the police constable on duty said.

‘Insensitive,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I suppose that death fascinates us because we’re still alive.’

She had parked the car a little way down the road. The diary fitted nearly in the compartment under the dashboard. She sat for a moment, her mind moving over the direction she could take. She could take the way she had come past the convent and down into town or the ring road that avoided the moors and dipped into the other end of the town. It wasn’t a road she had ever driven but it had the charm of novelty.

The housing estate failed to improve on further acquaintance. Neatly and logically planned with gardens in which the owners clearly took pride it yet lacked character. It was too new, too raw, an intrusion into the ancient landscape.

‘Sister Joan, good morning.’

She had slowed to a crawl at the corner where a sign pointed her towards the ring road. The woman who had hailed her had a laden shopping basket and a scarf tied over head.

‘Mrs Barratt, do forgive me. I was dreaming.’ She leaned to wind down the passenger-seat window. ‘May I return the favour you did me and offer you a lift?’

‘That’s very good of you, Sister. It really isn’t far, but groceries get heavier the longer you carry them,’ Daisy Barratt said, wrenching the door open and heaving herself and her bags inside. ‘My Mini went on the blink this morning and I wouldn’t have bothered shopping but we did need a few things and there’s quite a nice little supermarket in the shopping precinct here – the people are ever so helpful and they don’t mind chatting.’

Sister Joan felt a shaft of sympathy. The woman was a newcomer and lonely. Going to the local shops probably constituted her main social activity of the day.

‘Have you met any nice neighbours yet?’ she asked, driving on.

‘Oh, I’m sure they’re all very nice,’ Daisy said, flushing slightly. ‘It is rather difficult to get to know people though and being the wife of a police officer – people shy off a little. Even quite lawabiding people sometimes.’

‘Nuns have the same problem,’ Sister Joan said wryly.

‘In the world but not of it.’

‘Sometimes very much in the world,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I just called on the Davies family.’

‘There was an item about it in the newspaper,’ Daisy nodded. ‘Awful business. I thought that living in the country would be peaceful, safer.’

‘It depends on the people,’ Sister Joan said, slowing as the other indicated her destination. ‘On the whole we’re fairly lawabiding round here, give or take the odd poacher, but murder is different from the usual crime, isn’t it?’

‘Different?’

‘More – personal. There has to be such hatred involved. I mean you could steal from someone without even knowing them, but killing them – it’s different, much more personal. Sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well and I’m holding you up.’

‘I was hoping you would come in for a coffee,’ Daisy said with awkward shyness.

‘I really ought to …’ Sister Joan glanced at the mute, disappointed face and changed her reply. ‘Perhaps for a very quick cup of coffee then. Thank you.’

I am accepting, she informed herself, because I am sorry for this shy, quiet woman who’s finding it hard to settle in.

At the back of her mind her voice ran on, affectionately mocking.

Come on, Sister. You want to have a look at the house where that insufferable sergeant lives. Be honest.

There were lumps of stone and rock in the front garden. Daisy, shooting them a helpless look, said, as she fitted her key into the lock, ‘Mark intends to make a rockery but he’s so very busy and it’s not worth planting out until spring. Do
excuse the mess. We still have things in packing cases.’

The packing cases were not in evidence as they stepped into the square hall with the parquet floor and the open-tread stairs rising to an upper landing.

‘Do come into the breakfast-room, Sister. I only have to set out another cup and boil the kettle. I’m afraid it’s instant coffee.’

‘I never drink anything else,’ Sister Joan said, following her past a closed door into a back room from which an alcove gave on to a small, gleaming kitchen.

‘Do sit down, Sister. I’ll bring in the tray.’

Dragged down by her laden shopping bags Daisy vanished round the corner of the wall. Sister Joan sat down on one of the upright chairs placed around the uncompromisingly square dining-table. There was a flock striped wallpaper on the walls and curtains echoing the faint green spot at the windows. Beyond the glass was a neatly swept yard and a border of bare rose bushes. Against one wall a dresser held some oddly shaped pieces of blue and rose glass and a selection of patterned plates.

There was a smallish television set with a low chair at an angle to it. One chair, she noted, and wondered what that denoted. Did Sergeant Barratt leave his wife alone to watch the world of moving, two-dimensional images while he sat elsewhere, writing up his notes, thinking about the promised promotion? At each side of the windows were tall, narrow bookshelves. She got up and went over to them, running her eye over the titles. Collections of short stories culled from defunct literary magazines, accounts of true life crimes, the memoirs of a judge whose reputation for severity had rivalled Judge Jeffreys, Agatha Christie, Chandler, Sayers.

‘Mark reads a lot,’ Daisy said, coming in with a tray on which two cups of coffee, a milk jug and sugar bowl, and a plate of ginger snaps were symmetrically arranged.

‘You call him by his second name,’ Sister Joan remarked, recalling the somewhat ironic introduction that had been provided by Detective Sergeant Mill.

‘His first name is David, yes. After his father. He prefers Mark. Do you take sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

A Mark by any other name would still be irritating? Sister
Joan sipped her coffee and shook her head to the proffered ginger snap.

‘I ought not to but I do‚’ Daisy said guiltily.

‘You’re beautifully slim.’

‘Oh yes, I can eat anything and not put on an ounce,’ Daisy said. ‘I meant crumbs.’

‘Crumbs?’ Sister Joan stared at her for a moment. ‘Oh, I see. Yes, crumbs.’

‘Not that they bother me too dreadfully but they seem to get everywhere. I swear they hear the vacuum cleaner and roll away into the most inaccessible corner. Mark cannot bear them.’

‘You have no children yet?’

It was a foolish question since the answer was self-evident. It was a question she had no business to be asking since it impinged upon others’ privacy.

‘No, we haven’t any children.’ Daisy put the half-eaten ginger snap neatly on the edge of her saucer and flashed a nervous little smile. ‘You mustn’t think we’re bad Catholics. We’d both adore to have babies, but Mark is – not able to fully complete the act – if you understand me.’

It was entirely her own fault for asking the question, for forgetting that some people unburdened themselves of the most intimate secrets to a nun as if nuns were not ordinary human beings with normal reactions at all but depositories of hurtful secrets, of confidences they would not have entrusted to anyone else.

‘That’s very – sad for you,’ she said inadequately. ‘I believe there is help available these days – psychosexual counselling, that sort of thing.’

‘We accept it as God’s will,’ Daisy said, looking unhappy. ‘And Mark is – men have their proper pride.’

Which denied the crown of fatherhood might well be sublimated into excessive interest in all the ramifications of one’s work or into a mania for tidiness.

‘We don’t talk about it, especially to other people,’ Daisy said suddenly. ‘I know you won’t …?’

‘No, of course not,’ Sister Joan said, feeling colour surge up into her neck and face. ‘This is very good coffee.’

‘I always use water that isn’t quite boiling,’ Daisy said, turning with some alacrity to a less sensitive subject. ‘It makes
all the difference.’

‘I only wish I had more leisure in which to enjoy it‚’ Sister Joan said, ‘but I have another errand before I return to the convent. You know, if you’re looking to make friends, then the public library has a very full list of societies. Or if you attend church regularly then there are …’

‘The Mothers’ Union,’ Daisy said, her smile no more than the lifting of her lips. ‘I’d feel a bit out of place there. Anyway Mark likes me to be here when he gets home, and the hours of a police officer are dreadfully irregular, especially when there’s a murder enquiry.’

And you have a husband who’s a chauvinistic pig, ran Sister Joan’s thoughts.

‘I’ll try and call in again if I’m over this way,’ she said, rising.

‘That’s very kind of you, Sister. Believe me but it’s appreciated.’ She spoke in a slightly distracted manner, her eyes riveted on a few drops of coffee that had escaped the cup and trickled into the saucer.

‘I’ll see myself out then. Goodbye, Mrs Barratt.’

‘Daisy, please. Was that a car?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Mark did say he might look in for a bite of lunch if he wasn’t held up down at the station. I must get on.’

She had also risen, picking up the tray, her head bent. She was poised for flight through the archway into the kitchen where she could wash away the coffee stain and dispose of the uneaten half of ginger snap.