No Human Enemy (Suzie Mountford Mysteries) Read Online Free
Author: John Gardner
lessons.
Across the road, the convent wall turned abruptly at right angles, running a good hundred and fifty yards to form the rear boundary of the property. There was the hint of another wall within and in the far corner a short spire ran up from what could only be the chapel.
The flying bomb, the Fiesler 103, had landed some fifty yards inside Easter Park, gouging out a crater in which you could have hidden a couple of London double-decker buses, tearing up trees and the tarmacadam from a path running alongside the grubby grey convent wall.
On the corner the explosion had ripped away the stone blocks of the wall, laying bare three and a half rooms, hurling the stone inwards, bringing down the heavy ceilings. Three cells really. Cells for nuns, each with a simple iron bedstead, a stand chair and a prie-dieu, a crucifix on the wall: spartan little living spaces around ten feet by six, each uniformly whitewashed, grey now and dirty where they’d removed the debris. No sign of life except for the rescue men still busy clearing rock and starting to shore up what was left of the sagging ceilings.
The air smelt as though it was on fire and a curtain of dust appeared to hang permanently over the scene.
The Rescue team they had seen arriving had taken over from a section of ten men now relaxing on the grass, just outside the cordoned area, sipping large mugs of tea and munching on sandwiches provided by a WVS mobile canteen. A fire engine was also in attendance, its crew making the most of the canteen, and there was an ambulance parked nearby.
‘We’ve had to cordon this far back,’ Magnus explained. ‘Two of the cell doors’re damaged and can’t be locked,’ nodding towards the exposed rooms. ‘When the fire service boys and the rescue teams arrived there were nuns coming from the far side, trying to get to the bodies. Had to be told to go back. Bloody dangerous. Have to leave a guard down here all night of course. Some idiot on the piss, bet your pocketbook, will be in there and through into the convent. Raising all kinds of hell.’
‘Can’t raise hell in a convent. Three nuns, then? In there, three nuns?’ Tommy asked.
‘Novices, sir. Yes. Four actually, one’s in hospital, still alive. We went like the clappers to get them out so the crime scene’s ruined.’ Magnus hopped nervously from foot to foot, like a child in need of a urinal. ‘Three novices, Mr Livermore. Two of them killed by being knocked across their cells by blast and stone. Crushed. The other one was dead already they tell me. Had her throat cut. It wasn’t till they got her down the hospital that we were told for sure she wasn’t…’
‘Wasn’t a nun…?’ Tommy started.
‘… novice?’ Suzie asked.
‘No.’ Magnus shook his head. ‘Wasn’t a female. The third one, with her throat cut, wasn’t a her. He was a him, and his throat was cut, not by flying detritus but by a good, old-fashioned knife that we’ve yet to find.’
‘Oh, good,’ said DCS Tommy Livermore, always heavy on the irony.
CHAPTER THREE
They went down to the hospital to take a shufti at the bodies, not the most pleasant part of the day, getting on for five o’clock and four more V-1s falling not very far off, the sound of their popping, purring engines stopping making everyone clam up until the beast had exploded elsewhere.
Magnus was correct; one of the novices was a bloke, meat and two veg, the lot, and with his throat cut, ear to ear like a big extra pink mouth. The two women, both quite young, had been crushed horribly by great hunks of flying stone. Not a pretty sight, one with her neck obviously broken, the other with her chest stove in. Suzie thought of it like that, ‘chest stove in’ sounded like something from one of her brother’s books when he was fifteen or so, full of pirates, swashbuckling, full-blooded adventure and battles galore; people getting their chests and heads stove in.
When they’d marvelled at it all, Tommy talked to
Across the road, the convent wall turned abruptly at right angles, running a good hundred and fifty yards to form the rear boundary of the property. There was the hint of another wall within and in the far corner a short spire ran up from what could only be the chapel.
The flying bomb, the Fiesler 103, had landed some fifty yards inside Easter Park, gouging out a crater in which you could have hidden a couple of London double-decker buses, tearing up trees and the tarmacadam from a path running alongside the grubby grey convent wall.
On the corner the explosion had ripped away the stone blocks of the wall, laying bare three and a half rooms, hurling the stone inwards, bringing down the heavy ceilings. Three cells really. Cells for nuns, each with a simple iron bedstead, a stand chair and a prie-dieu, a crucifix on the wall: spartan little living spaces around ten feet by six, each uniformly whitewashed, grey now and dirty where they’d removed the debris. No sign of life except for the rescue men still busy clearing rock and starting to shore up what was left of the sagging ceilings.
The air smelt as though it was on fire and a curtain of dust appeared to hang permanently over the scene.
The Rescue team they had seen arriving had taken over from a section of ten men now relaxing on the grass, just outside the cordoned area, sipping large mugs of tea and munching on sandwiches provided by a WVS mobile canteen. A fire engine was also in attendance, its crew making the most of the canteen, and there was an ambulance parked nearby.
‘We’ve had to cordon this far back,’ Magnus explained. ‘Two of the cell doors’re damaged and can’t be locked,’ nodding towards the exposed rooms. ‘When the fire service boys and the rescue teams arrived there were nuns coming from the far side, trying to get to the bodies. Had to be told to go back. Bloody dangerous. Have to leave a guard down here all night of course. Some idiot on the piss, bet your pocketbook, will be in there and through into the convent. Raising all kinds of hell.’
‘Can’t raise hell in a convent. Three nuns, then? In there, three nuns?’ Tommy asked.
‘Novices, sir. Yes. Four actually, one’s in hospital, still alive. We went like the clappers to get them out so the crime scene’s ruined.’ Magnus hopped nervously from foot to foot, like a child in need of a urinal. ‘Three novices, Mr Livermore. Two of them killed by being knocked across their cells by blast and stone. Crushed. The other one was dead already they tell me. Had her throat cut. It wasn’t till they got her down the hospital that we were told for sure she wasn’t…’
‘Wasn’t a nun…?’ Tommy started.
‘… novice?’ Suzie asked.
‘No.’ Magnus shook his head. ‘Wasn’t a female. The third one, with her throat cut, wasn’t a her. He was a him, and his throat was cut, not by flying detritus but by a good, old-fashioned knife that we’ve yet to find.’
‘Oh, good,’ said DCS Tommy Livermore, always heavy on the irony.
CHAPTER THREE
They went down to the hospital to take a shufti at the bodies, not the most pleasant part of the day, getting on for five o’clock and four more V-1s falling not very far off, the sound of their popping, purring engines stopping making everyone clam up until the beast had exploded elsewhere.
Magnus was correct; one of the novices was a bloke, meat and two veg, the lot, and with his throat cut, ear to ear like a big extra pink mouth. The two women, both quite young, had been crushed horribly by great hunks of flying stone. Not a pretty sight, one with her neck obviously broken, the other with her chest stove in. Suzie thought of it like that, ‘chest stove in’ sounded like something from one of her brother’s books when he was fifteen or so, full of pirates, swashbuckling, full-blooded adventure and battles galore; people getting their chests and heads stove in.
When they’d marvelled at it all, Tommy talked to
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