It was three in the morning before Detective Inspector Jane McCann crawled into her bed. Exhausted though she was, she could not sleep, for now there were two dead bodies haunting her: one a brown-haired phone-sex-purveying jilted Catholic wife on a church altar in Surrey, another a bleached-blond Sheffield prostitute lying on her filthy cot surrounded by soiled condoms and used syringes; both of them with their legs wide open, a Catholic priest's semen seeping from their cunts.
Jane had dropped Phil back at his flat on the way home, apologising for the umpteenth time for ruining his evening with Bob. Realising that her sexual desire remained unsated after the interruption of the previous evening, she had brought herself off at home swiftly and unceremoniously with her fingers -- no call for the rabbit tonight: that demanded time and attention, and she was not in the right mood for that.
Actually, she was not even in the mood for fingers either this morning. But orgasm helped her work off her mental frustration -- and there was plenty of that.
What the fuck is going on?
she kept asking herself.
And how? And why? And where is the priest? And how come he is still at large, despite the fact that every fucking police force in the country is looking for him?
Jane dozed fitfully, but was awoken shortly after eight o'clock by the phone. Blearily she answered, "Yes...?"
"Detective Inspector?" The voice was female, with a foreign accent -- perhaps Spanish or Latin American of some description -- and sounded slightly nervous, though vaguely familiar. If Jane had been more awake, she would have recognised who it was. "Inspector, this is Sister Mariana -- from the Church of the Immaculate Conception. I need to speak to you. But somewhere where we won't be seen."
"Do you have information about Father Wright's whereabouts?" asked the Inspector urgently.
"Not exactly -- but I know what's going on -- and I can help," replied the nun.
"What do you mean, you 'know what's going on'?"
"Has there been someone else?"
"Someone else?"
"Another victim -- another body?"
"How the hell do you know that?" asked the Inspector.
"I know this curse; I know how it works. And I know Father Jim's history."
"This 'curse' again -- what on earth?" Jane rolled her eyes in disbelief. "OK, OK, let's meet. How about at the police station, in an hour or so?"
"No, I might be seen. There are people who mustn't know. Meet me on the corner opposite the Town Hall. I'll be in civvies. Pick me up in your car; we can drive into the countryside. Then I can speak freely."
~~~~~
An hour later, Jane was driving a small olive-skinned woman through the forests of East Berkshire in her unmarked police car. Without her habit -- particularly without the wimple -- Sister Mariana appeared less severe than she had the previous day. Her long brown hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, but clearly had a bit of natural curl to it, gracefully framing a soft face with penetrating green eyes. Though dressed in nothing more than a calf-length blue skirt, high-buttoned white blouse and light blue cardigan, Jane couldn't help noticing her broad hips, and the outline of a pair of full breasts.
Despite the air of naïveté and vulnerability that her appearance gave her, Sister Mariana was clearly determined not to seem a pushover. "You don't believe in curses, do you?" she asked, in what Jane thought sounded like a slightly accusatory tone of voice.
"Of course not, Sister. I'm a detective. I look for evidence, for causality. In this case, I haven't found any yet."
"Nor will you, if that is your attitude," replied the nun, in a tone of voice which she presumably thought meaningful, but which Jane found infuriatingly self-righteous.
"How do you mean?" retorted Jane.
"Father Jim is a weak-willed man. He has been so ever since I met him, when he first came to the parish. You found his pornography, I notice. And presumably you know about the phone calls?"
"With the deceased? Yes. How did you --?"
"In the Catholic Church we look out for each other. Bishop Kieran knows what it's like to be weak-willed. He asked me to keep an eye out. And Vicky told me about the curse."
"This 'curse' again!" Jane cried out in frustration. "Such things don't exist, Sister Mariana. I don't hold with all this mumbo-jumbo, it's --"
"You don't have to 'hold with' it, Detective Inspector, any more than a flea has to 'hold with' the elephant whose backside he finds himself sitting on. It's just the reality. Bernadette called the curse down on herself. Jim, poor fool, tried to lift it -- but he had no idea what he was doing, so it just transferred itself to him. And there it will linger, killing one girl after another, until you find him and stop him."
"So where's he gone, dammit? If you're 'looking out for him' all the time, you must know where he's hiding. Is the Bishop hiding him somewhere?"
"No, he's not clever enough for that. Neither of them is. This is the Catholic Church we're talking about: only the women know what's really --"
Jane's mobile phone rang, and she pulled over into a layby to answer it. "Hello?... Oh, Denise, for God's sake tell me you've got some good news... WHAT?! WHERE?... Oh God... Okay, I'll go and pick up Phil, and we can go together."
Jane threw her phone into the glove compartment and slammed it shut, swearing, "SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!" before remembering that she was in the presence of a nun, and apologising.
"Another dead girl?" asked Sister Mariana blandly, making the sign of the cross.
"Yes, found in Father Wright's car this time. Same MO, same DNA in the semen."
"Where?"
"Eden Valley. Cumbria. Seemingly a hiker: there was a backpack."
"Ah!" replied the nun knowingly.
"What? Do you know where he's headed?"
"Possibly. There's a place he often speaks about."
"What sort of place?"
"Well, a sort of chapel, I suppose: I know where it is."
"Take me there, Sister. We'll go and pick up Detective Sergeant Nyman first."
"And Vicky."
"Vicky? Victoria Berry? Why?"
