The Rosary Garden by Nicola White (good books to read for women txt) 📗

He scrambled back up the bank. Far off on the main street, a pair of drunk women were singing, holding each other up as they walked along.

He started to run, away from the town, the bridge, the lights. He clambered over the first gate he came to and ran up two fields before he let himself stop. Lungs sore, he flung his body down in the lee of an old wall. A cow wheezed nearby and he jumped with fright. It was a wonder his nerves still worked at all. He remembered the naggin of rum in his jacket pocket. It hadn’t broken. He clamped it to his lips. Una would be wondering where he had got to, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t his fault this time.

21

It was pathetic to admit it, but Swan quite enjoyed Saturdays in the office. The drive into work was clear, and a sunnier air was discernible among his colleagues – dress code loosened by one button. The overtime helped, of course. A packet of chocolate biscuits lay open beside the coffee machine. He took two and balanced them on a saucer on top of his coffee cup. Breakfast.

Half of the others were in already, and Considine’s jacket was on the back of her chair. Barrett scooted across the aisle to pass him a sheaf of messages. The top one said Dr Flynn from the Technical Bureau wanted him to call. The number was an internal extension, not the one for the state lab at Abbotsford, so he guessed she was upstairs. He felt invigorated; things were starting to move. Hopefully Goretti could provide another piece of the jigsaw.

Dr Goretti Flynn’s office was crisp and organised, as was the woman herself. Her hair bothered him – a perfect dome of it floating about her skull as if it had never met the resistance of a headrest or pillow. He imagined her sitting bolt upright in bed in a frilly nightdress, fast asleep. He was once tempted to comment on the hair, but stopped himself in time. It was hard enough to get forensics results through at the best of times.

Goretti was at her desk, a china cup in one hand and a pen in the other, making marks in a grid on a large sheet of paper. Swan rapped gently on the glass door and she looked up and smiled. As he entered, she put her cup down and wiped her fingers on a tissue from a box on her desk.

‘I’ve something to show you,’ she said.

She unlocked the door of the small lab behind and brought him over to a counter where three fat paper bags lay.

‘These are three school blouses – the one on the right is from the crime scene, the one on the left Declan Barrett got from the convent laundry, the one in the middle you brought in a few days ago. The blouse from the convent has a name tag sewn in at the neck, and Declan said all boarders’ shirts are required to have the same. Neither of the other two blouses has a name tag or signs that one was ever attached.’

Goretti was on a roll. She had that tight quality to her voice that usually boded well.

‘So, taking the name-tagged blouse out of the equation for the moment, I compared these two. If you washed out the fluid stain, you would be hard put to tell them apart. Identical material, identical size and, as far as I can tell, identical wear and tear.’

‘This type of blouse is made in Birmingham and imported by one Irish wholesaler. It’s sold in places like Arnotts, Clerys and Roches Stores. Since it’s a standard piece of school kit, the wholesaler estimates they shift thirty thousand units a year. But that’s predominantly at primary-school level, in smaller sizes, so there’s only about one thousand sold per year in this size.’

‘Only a thousand? That’s a lot of blouse.’

‘Yes – were it not for two things. Now neither is conclusive, but put them together and they are … well, quite the coincidence.’

She shook both blouses out of their bags and showed him the right cuffs – both were frayed along the edge in exactly the same way, in exactly the same place.

‘Probably from rubbing against an edge or surface while writing, but interesting how the wear is identical.’

‘A common thing, though.’

‘Okay, but look at this.’ Goretti swung a lamp out over the counter and switched it on. ‘Look closely – just above the pockets.’

On both blouses there were several holes pierced through the fabric in the same position on the right breast, the tight weave of the polyester pulled open at minute entry-points. Something had been pinned there.

‘Could be from some badge or religious medal the girls all have.’

‘Not in St Brigid’s they don’t. Prefects wear a sash, and only one medal or cross on a chain around the neck is allowed. All else is considered jewellery, and Sister Mary Paul would kill you if she found it.’

‘Your research is formidable.’

‘Sure they drilled it into me.’

‘Ah, for God’s sake, why didn’t you mention it?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s not important. Let’s just say my days at St Brigid’s weren’t the happiest of my life. I’m sure whatever was attached to the shirt would have been hidden by the tunic bib that covers it – so it was something clandestine.’

‘So, badges or brooches aren’t allowed, but Ali Hogan wore some under her uniform, as did the owner of the shirt in the shed.’

‘Or they’re both Ali Hogan’s.’

‘Do y’know, that’s a possibility that’s looking stronger by the minute. Did you have time to look at that bag she left in the shed?’

‘That’s why I’m in here on a lovely morning and not on the golf course.’

Ali’s patchwork bag was on the central table, pulled inside out on a sheet of white card, so that only its black cotton lining showed.

‘You wanted a check for blood?’

As he walked towards it,