As the three stood in the nave, Macalvie outlined it for them.

“First, serial killings often look crazily unrelated—or even crazily related: it’s the craziness that counts. Remember that case you had where all three victims wore designer shoes—?”

“That wasn’t a serial killing, Macalvie.”

“I know. But it had the appearance of one because of the shoes and the escort services. I’m talking about appearance here.”

“There’s still the constraint of geography. Here we’re dealing with three different counties. And one of them’s Northants. Devon and Cornwall are close together. But Northamptonshire? Come on,” said Jury.

“Manon Vinet knew Daisy, and probably Flora Flood. Daisy possibly knew Flora. But now we have a fourth woman who seems completely unrelated to the other three.”

“Except she wasn’t unrelated.”

“How do you work that out, Brian?”

“Moira Quinn was a maid for the Summerstons for a time. Her mother was the cook at Summerplace and got her the position.”

Jury looked up. “So you think she knew Manon?”

“Could be. It’s a connection nonetheless.”

“You have my attention. Where was the body found?”

Macalvie nodded toward a point farther down the nave. “Down there. Fifth bay, near the misericords.”

They walked toward the east, Tom commenting, “That glorious east window.”

“Fourteenth-century glass,” said Macalvie. “They dismantled it during the war, took out all the panes to keep them from being shattered.”

“I can understand why.”

They came to the place where the now-absent body was still outlined.

“Moira Quinn,” said Macalvie. “Aged 38, lived with her mum in a flat on the Quay; worked at Debenhams as a cleaner. Here, as a matter of fact, as a holy duster.”

Tom Brownell looked a question.

“Just what it says. Donate their time to clean in the cathedral. I spoke to a couple of the ladies who work here. They said she was very, very good at it. And very devout. Said Moira used to live in London—Battersea, also with her mum. Worked in South Ken, Belgravia, Docklands, also cleaning. Mum’s destroyed, as the Irish put it.”

“I’m sure the Irish are right,” said Tom.

17

The woman who opened the door to them was small, dark-haired, blue-eyed and inconsolable. That was clear to Jury even though her face was perfectly free of tears, and nor was there a sign of a recent bout of them. It was the way her gaze was fixed on Jury—

But then it shifted to Tom Brownell, who said, “Mrs. Quinn, forgive us for bothering you. We’re police—”

That voice that could melt ice caps.

Her head and her body moved sideways and she leaned against the doorjamb.

For a moment, Tom did not disturb this position. The next minute he put his hand on her shoulder. “May we go in, Mrs. Quinn?”