‘Isn’t that what I’m after telling you.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ Lottie felt her jaw drop. She thought of the tattoo on the victims’ legs. ‘James and Susan had similar marks on the inside of their legs. Like a crude tattoo. Do you know anything about that?’
O’Malley said nothing.
‘Was it something to do with St Angela’s?’
‘You could say that,’ he said, eventually.
‘What does it mean?’ Lottie pressed.
‘I don’t know.’ His face closed up.
‘Did they get the tattoos when they were in St Angela’s?’
‘Yeah.’
Lottie thought for a moment. ‘Do you have one?’
O’Malley stared at her, as if he was deciding whether to tell her or not. He said, ‘I do, Inspector. I do.’
‘So what is it all about?’
He licked his lips and shook his head. ‘Can’t remember.’
He was lying but Lottie didn’t press it, afraid he might clam up totally. She wanted to hear more about St Angela’s.
‘Tell me about Susan and James.’
‘We tagged along together, the three of us. In St Angela’s.’ He smiled. ‘We were friends with another lad too. I can’t remember his name. Do you know, a lot of them changed their names when they got out? I couldn’t be bothered. James neither, I suppose.’
‘How long was Susan in there?’ she asked.
He looked confused.
‘In St Angela’s,’ she added.
‘I don’t know. It could’ve been a year, it could’ve been more or less. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know how long I was there.’
‘What did you do all day in St Angela’s?’ asked Lottie, scribbling notes.
‘We went to school in the mornings after Mass. In autumn we picked apples.’
‘Apples?’ Lottie dipped her chin and raised her eyes.
‘The nuns made apple jelly.’
‘To eat?’
‘To sell,’ said O’Malley. ‘There was an orchard there. We used to pick the fallen apples off the ground. If you got punished for something, you had to pluck the maggots and flies out of the mushy ones. Bad luck if you were afraid of maggots,’ O’Malley said with a short laugh, but Lottie noted his eyes were deathly serious.
‘Apple jelly,’ mused Lottie, remembering the glass jars, cloth lids held in place with rubber bands, on the breakfast table in front of her mother.
‘Yes, Inspector,’ said O’Malley. ‘I remember the year Sally arrived. That was a bumper year for apples. Not a good one for us though.’
August 1975
‘Sort through that basket of apples, Master Brown,’ the tall priest said, pointing to a bruised pile of fruit.
‘Please Father, I don’t like worms. Don’t make me do it,’ said James.
The priest stretched to his full height. The boy cowered, as if expecting a slap.
‘Leave him alone,’ said Sally.
Patrick stood beside Sally and another boy called Brian. She had an apple in her hand. It was bruised and black. Patrick thought she might throw it at the priest. A bastard, that’s what Father Con was. They all knew it. They were all afraid of him.
Patrick watched warily as Father Con stepped towards James and extended his hand into the basket. He plucked an apple, scrutinised it and threw it back. He took out another. This one was almost in mush, a maggot sucking on the flesh. He thrust the fruit towards the boy. James kept his trembling arms wedged to his sides.
‘Eat it,’ the priest shouted, shoving the apple under the boy’s nose. ‘Eat.’
‘Don’t make him do it,’ Sally cried.
‘You shut your mouth,’ the priest said.
Patrick gripped Sally’s arm. There was no point in them all getting punished.
‘I said eat!’
James held out his hand but was barely able to hold the apple. His fingers were white to his wrists. He dropped it, turned and ran.
‘This is your fault,’ said the priest, grabbing Sally’s hair.
She screamed. Patrick froze in his shoes. James reached the end of the orchard and shrunk into the brick wall.
The priest grabbed Brian by the arm. ‘You will take Brown’s punishment.’
Then he pulled Sally towards him.
‘Girl, get that apple and make Brian eat every last morsel.’ His voice was a sinister whisper. ‘I’ll be watching.’
Whatever was in his eyes, Patrick saw it terrify Sally into silence. She held the apple to Brian’s mouth. The boy shrieked.
‘Please,’ Sally said, pleading with Brian, tears flowing down her face.
‘No,’ Brian screamed.
She shoved the apple into his open mouth.
The priest pulled tighter on her hair. James ran back up towards them. Patrick stood motionless.
‘Again,’ Father Con said. ‘Again!’
Sally pushed the apple into the boy’s mouth and a black worm wriggled at the corner of his teeth. Her eyes widened in horror. She dropped her hand and the fruit lodged in the boy’s mouth, stifling his screams.
Patrick stood still as Sally turned to him.
Pleading.
But he couldn’t move.
O’Malley’s eyes were closed, deep in his reminiscences.
‘That’s horrific,’ Lottie said. Her skin crawled from the images he’d painted and she clenched her fist. ‘Who was this Father Con?’ She looked at the name she’d written.
‘A bollocks, that’s who,’ O’Malley said, rage flaring his eyes wide open. ‘A scourge, a fucking plague.’ He paused. ‘Sorry for the language, Inspector.’
‘Do you know his full name?’
‘Only knew him as Father Con.’
‘Was this Brian the friend you mentioned?’
O’Malley laughed. ‘Brian was no friend of ours, Inspector.’
‘And you don’t know his full name either?’
‘No, ma’am.’ He sat in silence for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was a painful creaking sound. Dear God, thought Lottie, had he more to tell?
‘Sally and James,’ O’Malley said. ‘They weren’t the first to be killed, mind.’
Lottie locked eyes with him, while he dredged up another memory from the depths of his being.
August 1975
Patrick heard Sister Teresa screaming. Then he heard the commotion. Nuns running up and down the corridors. Children rushing out of their rooms. Everyone wondering what was going on. A baby was missing from the nursery. Whose baby?
Patrick felt a terrible fear tie his chest into a knot. He hoped it wasn’t Sally’s eight-month-old tot. Not that Sally was ever allowed into the nursery to visit. The nuns saw to that.
Everyone searched for hours, adults and children, until they found the baby nestled in a basket, underneath an apple tree, surrounded by fresh, smooth-skinned apples. The cord from a boy’s pyjama bottoms was wrapped tight around the tiny neck.
The children stood huddled together as a weeping Sister Teresa clutched the chalk-white, doll-like body to her chest. She swept slowly through the hushed crowd, which spread apart like the Red Sea for Moses.
As they watched the nun walk up the steps, Patrick held one of Sally’s hands and James held the other.
‘Jeepers creepers,’ said James.
‘Crap,’ said Patrick.
‘Is it my baby?’ asked Sally.
No one let her see the body. No one told Sally anything.
Patrick squeezed her hand. She squeezed his back and the two boys led her inside.