‘He get correspondence . . . that is why he go.’
‘Do you have a copy of this correspondence?’ she asked.
‘No. A message. On his phone.’
‘But you must know something,’ she persisted.
The priest sighed, glanced at Father Joe, then turned his attention to Lottie. ‘I no remember when. Summer maybe? He receive phone call from a man. James Brown. He ask for investigation. Into St Angela’s. He say, it sell for small money. He say, Father Angelotti must also look for adopted baby. You understand? My English not good.’
Lottie said, ‘I understand.’
‘Father Angelotti, he spend many hours with the ledgers after that. I know there was more correspondence with this James. December, Father Angelotti, he tell me he must go. He say he make big mistake. He say he must talk to people. To make things right.’
‘What mistake?’ Lottie asked.
‘He say he mix up numbers. That is all he say. He tell me not to ask questions. So I no ask.’
‘Can I show Inspector Parker the ledgers?’ Father Joe asked.
The priest nodded.
‘My dear friend he is dead.’ He paused, then said, ‘I go for a passeggiata . . . a walk. Then I tell no lies when I do not see.’ He pulled on a coat and without another word went out into the night, leaving them alone.
Father Joe stood up.
‘Bishop Connor ordered all the old St Angela’s ledgers to be moved from Ireland to here. It was about two years ago. I’ve no idea why. They’re now stored in the basement. Come,’ he said and opened a door which Lottie thought was a bathroom. It revealed a winding staircase.
‘Surely they should be in a more secure location?’ Lottie asked.
‘This is secure. There’s a multitude of offices like this one scattered all over Rome. Very few people know about them.’
They reached the bottom of three flights of stairs.
A thick wooden door lay open, an iron key in its lock. Lottie looked at Father Joe, and entered the room.
Seventy-Two
‘This place is unbelievable,’ Lottie said.
Shelf after shelf of leather-bound ledgers. History consigned to the back streets of Rome.
Father Joe opened a ledger on the desk. ‘St Angela’s,’ he said.
Lottie breathed deeply, realising she’d been holding her breath. He carefully turned the faded pages until he reached the year he was looking for: 1975. She glanced at him before perusing what had been written, decades before.
Lists. Names, ages, dates, sex. All female.
‘What are we looking at?’ she asked, though she had already guessed.
‘These pages refer to girls placed in St Angela’s in 1975,’ he said. ‘I’ve gone through it but I can’t find a Susan Sullivan anywhere.’
Lottie sat down, turned the leaves, reading through the lists.
‘Here she is,’ she said. ‘Sally Stynes. She changed her name.’ She traced her finger along the row.
‘That’s why I couldn’t find her,’ he said.
‘These are reference numbers,’ she declared. ‘This one, beside Sally’s name, AA113. What does it mean?’
‘It refers to another ledger somewhere here,’ he said. ‘I haven’t found it yet. But look at this.’ He handed her another smaller book.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t believe it. Dates of birth. Dates of death. Joe, they were only babies and little children.’ Lottie scanned the pages, horror choking her.
‘I know,’ he said, quietly.
‘Cause of death – Measles, Cholic, Unknown,’ she read. ‘My God. Where did they bury them?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘It all seems so methodical, impersonal,’ she said. ‘These were people’s children.’
‘I’m not sure it has anything to do with your investigations. The reference number you pointed out, I can’t see it here,’ he said, leaning over her shoulder.
Lottie tried to control her trembling body. Shocking media headlines of dead babies in septic tanks came back to her. It was international news a few years ago. Now her hands held evidence of something similar. Was that why the books had been relocated? She went back to the first ledger he’d shown her.
‘This ledger,’ she said, ‘only lists female admissions. There were boys in St Angela’s.’ She remembered the missing boy’s file, buried in her drawer. Another mystery associated with St Angela’s. She hoped this place might throw some light on it.
‘They’ll be in another ledger. I’ll keep looking. There were so many children in that school over the years,’ he said, pointing to the rows of black spines on the shelves.
‘Don’t call it a school,’ she said, thumping the table, unable to suppress her anger any longer. ‘It was an institution. One that slipped under the radar.’
‘Until now.’ His voice was flat. Resigned.
‘Who is this Father Cornelius who signed each page?’ Lottie asked, diverting her eyes from the tragedy scripted before her. Could he be the Father Con that O’Malley referred to? He must be, she thought.
Father Joe pulled down another ledger from the shelf.
‘You have to see this first,’ he said, opening a page he’d already marked. ‘This set of records is like a tracking device,’ he explained. ‘It lists priests and where they served.’
Lottie took the small ledger and placed it on top of the others with trembling hands. The name headlined the page in neat ink script – Father Cornelius Mohan. The rows beneath it confirmed movement between parishes and dioceses. No reason given for such transfers.
‘Most priests might serve three, maybe four parishes in a lifetime,’ Father Joe said.
‘But there must be twenty, thirty here.’ She ran her finger down the page, counting. Then she turned to the next one. More parishes. She kept on counting.
‘He served in forty-two different parishes throughout the country,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Tells a story doesn’t it,’ he said. A statement, not a question. He paced the confined space.
‘He moved around because of abuse?’ she asked.
‘Doesn’t state it, but priests are not normally shifted from parish to parish in that fashion. I’m sure there are bulging files of allegations on him. Somewhere.’
‘Jesus Christ, his last address is Ballinacloy. That’s not far from Ragmullin,’ Lottie said. ‘Do you know if he’s still alive?’
‘I’m sure I would have heard if he had died, even if he is retired,’ Father Joe said, nodding his head, his shoulders slumped. ‘He must be in his eighties.’
‘Do you know him? Have you met him?’
‘I don’t know him. I was shocked when I discovered this.’
‘Someone manually updated these ledgers?’
‘None of this goes on a computer. Would you want this traced? Not the Catholic Church. It would want this hushed up, hidden and covered up.’
‘Can I make copies?’
‘That’s not allowed.’
Lottie observed him for a moment and his eyes told her what she needed to know. She fingered the phone in her pocket.
‘Didn’t you say you have to use the bathroom?’ she asked.
‘Don’t tear out any pages,’ he said. He knew what she was planning.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m trusting you.’