The Dead Ground (17 page)

Paula and Guy ducked in among them. ‘There’s definitely something up,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen a crowd like this since Glastonbury.’

She couldn’t picture him at a festival, but ignored this. ‘I think they’re here for her. It’s like the videos on her site.’

They followed the crowds round behind the house, where the gate to the field had been left open. Beside them, a boy on crutches was being helped over the cattle grid, his legs cruelly twisted. Paula suddenly realised what it reminded her of – a film they’d watched in school, the pilgrims in Lourdes flocking up the grotto, bathing in the scummy water and casting their sticks aside.

‘It’s some kind of prayer rally,’ she started to say to Guy, but she was drowned out by the crackle of a handheld loudspeaker.

Up ahead they saw Father Brendan, who had it slung over his shoulder like a tour guide. ‘Yous’ll all get the chance to see Mrs Croft – just wait your turn. Anybody what can’t stand for long can come up first.’ Behind him, serene as an idol in a flowered picnic chair, sat Magdalena Croft. Or Mary Conaghan, as she’d been when she got married in 1978, if their research was right. Behind her, the half-built church took up one corner of her field, wooden beams and bags of cement stacked with a covering of fallen snow. They looked to have been untouched for some time.

Paula and Guy fought their way to the front, unsticking boots from mud. The crowd appeared to be passive, but when you tried to get through them, they had a tenacious elasticity. No one was going to push in, but equally no one was going to yield their place on the frozen ground. Magdalena Croft had a young woman in front of her, no more than thirty. The woman’s heavy jumper was lifted so the healer’s hands rested on the white skin of her belly. It was barely above freezing, and her flesh dimpled with cold, but she didn’t move, staring straight ahead.

Paula put out her own hand and grasped Guy’s arm to hold him back. ‘
No
.’ She could feel the muscles tense, but he waited. Croft’s lips moved, her eyes half-shut. After a while she snapped them open and resettled her large glasses on her nose. ‘There you go, pet. God will bless you with a child within the year.’

‘Oh thank you, thank you.’ The woman was crying, stumbling off to the side, fumbling a twenty-pound note into the old ice cream tub Father Brendan was holding. On the side, over the faded picture of Raspberry Ripple, the word OFFRINGS had been inked.

‘Must be making a tidy profit,’ said Guy. He had his warrant card in his hand as they approached, the line of people regarding them blankly. ‘Father Brendan?’

An irritable look. ‘Youse’ll have to wait your turn.’

‘Well, we won’t, actually. We need to see Mrs Croft now.’

‘These people have come for miles—’

‘It’s OK, Brendan.’ Her voice was a surprise again. Deep and almost musical, the accent shifting like the wind. She was dressed in wellies, a tweed skirt, and Arran jumper, her hair twisted and plaited round her head. Half nun, half druid priestess. ‘I’m always happy to help the police. Sure aren’t they looking for poor lost souls, same as me?’

A murmur went up from the crowd as she stood. Father Brendan, who was wearing a ski jacket over his cassock, took to his loudspeaker. ‘Mrs Croft will take a wee break, she’ll be back with yis soon. God bless yis.’

Inside the house was warm and dry after the damp field. ‘Would you mind waiting here a moment?’ Magdalena slipped off her wellies to reveal holey American Tan tights, and indicated to them to follow suit. Guy struggled with the laces on his good brogues. Underfoot, the cream carpet was thick and luxurious. ‘I’ll be with you soon. I need to refocus.’ She shut the door into the living room and they waited in the hallway. The walls were lined with pictures of saints, wooden crosses, a huge Sacred Heart painting above the door, Jesus with his chest open and beating. Paula shuddered, remembering that her grandmother had had one exactly the same.

‘Weird place,’ said Guy, in a low voice. ‘I can see all that money was well spent.’

‘Mm.’ She looked at him. ‘Can I ask you something? You know the day Alek went missing?’

‘I’m familiar with it, yes.’

‘Was Tess working at the hospital that day?’ The question burst from her. ‘Only one of the nurses said there was a midwife in that day, and I just thought . . .’

‘Just what are you asking, Paula?’

‘I don’t know. I—’

‘I think we should leave my family out of this, don’t you?’

‘I—’

‘Look, I know I made a mistake with you that night, but how long am I going to go on paying for it? Tess is my wife. I have to look after her. We have a child together.’

Paula stared very hard at the Sacred Heart picture, biting her lip and willing herself not to say anything. She heard Guy mutter, ‘
For fuck’s sake.
’ Then there was a shuffling and Father Brendan was coming to summon them.

‘What can I help you with this time?’ Magdalena Croft had settled herself in the living room, smoothing her skirt. ‘Tea, Brendan, if you would.’

Guy sat down on the overstuffed armchair. ‘Mrs Croft, I’m Detective Inspector Guy Brooking. I run the missing persons’ unit. As you know, we’re very stretched. We were delighted you helped us find Alek safe, but Darcy Williams is still missing.’

‘I haven’t been able to see anything for her. Sometimes I don’t, sadly.’

‘We’ve also had a murder. You’ve heard about that?’

She nodded. ‘The death doctor. Unfortunately God is just. She’s paid her debts now. I’ll pray for her soul.’

Guy glanced at Paula. ‘We understand you condemned Dr Bates.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. I spoke out against her at one of my rallies. Someone had to.’

‘Is there a chance some of your followers might have interpreted it as a call to do her harm? They seem to do whatever you tell them.’

Her face was placid. ‘I can’t be held responsible if people are drawn to me. It’s my gift, and my cross to bear.’

‘Why Dr Bates?’ Paula burst in. ‘She was trying to help people too.’

The woman’s eyes rested on her, leaving a chill like touching a frosty window. ‘Doctor. I get women coming to me five, ten at a time. Desperate for a child. None to adopt any more. Meanwhile, girls go round whipping their knickers off for any fella, and when they can’t take the consequences it’s the unborn babies who pay for it. I don’t think a woman who’d help with that belongs in a God-fearing town like Ballyterrin.’

‘Mrs Croft.’ Paula tried again. ‘So far we have no leads in this case, and I’m sorry to say Dr Bates’s daughter has also gone missing. You may see it in the papers today. She’s heavily pregnant and it’s going to snow again tonight. We need to find her.’

There was some reaction to that, an odd flicker that ran across the face like a ripple on a calm lake. ‘I didn’t know there was a daughter. Was the Bates doctor not mocking God by living with another woman, flaunting her sin?’

‘She’d been married before. As you were.’ Paula couldn’t resist the shot but it didn’t seem to register. Guy shook his head at her slightly:
back off.

Magdalena Croft had recovered and was once again calm as a statue. ‘I’m sure she isn’t far. Were you wanting to use my vision to find the daughter, is that it?’

Guy ploughed on. ‘Mrs Croft, you’re the only lead we have. We’d like to find out how you knew Alek would be in the church that day.’

The big dark eyes blinked behind the glasses. ‘I saw him, Inspector. The Virgin came and showed me.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Croft, but you must understand, he was lost, and you knew exactly where to find him. We can’t explain it.’

‘You see that board of pictures?’ They looked where she pointed – a frame on the wall with spaces for maybe twenty pictures. Intended for grandparents with large Catholic broods, perhaps. Each one was filled with a photo of a newborn baby. ‘Those are all children born to women I’ve helped. Women who were told by conventional medicine that they’d never conceive. How do you explain that?’

It set Paula’s teeth on edge when people talked about ‘conventional medicine’, as if it were dangerous heresy. ‘How do
you
explain it?’

Magdalena Croft looked at her. ‘You’ve heard of women conceiving once they’ve adopted, after countless years of trying?’

Reluctantly, she conceded. ‘Yes.’

‘There are more things in the world than we understand.’

‘You’re saying they get pregnant just because you give them hope?’

She presented once again her inscrutable face. ‘I’m not required to understand how it works, Dr Maguire. I’ve been blessed with the gift to help people. It’s all I’ve ever known. Brendan!’ The priest came scurrying, as if he’d been waiting outside the door, a tray wobbling in his hands laden with flowered mugs and a packet of Jammy Dodgers. ‘I won’t be needing any tea. Give some to these young folk if they want it. I must get back to my followers.’ She stumped to the door on her horny stockinged feet, pausing as she turned. ‘If you want my help with that poor missing girl, you’ll need to bring me something she touched. Clothes are best. God willing she’ll be found, and her wee baby too. If it’s something else you want, then arrest me and I’ll answer any charges. I’ve nothing to hide.’ Something about the last statement was jarring, but Paula couldn’t think what it was.

‘Mrs Croft—’

She cut Guy off. ‘I must get back. I have duties.’ She was going.

‘Mary!’ Paula called after her as she went out. ‘Why won’t you tell us the truth?’

Magdalena turned, unblinking. She moved slowly back into the room, in front of Paula, looking intently between her and Guy. She smiled. ‘So he’s the one, is he? Isn’t it about time you told him the truth, Dr Maguire? He’ll find out soon enough.’

Paula gaped. Guy was frowning. ‘What—?’

‘You have to stop putting things off, Paula. You have less time than you think. You should start now. What you’re looking for might be saved, if you can only find the courage.’

And she was gone.

Guy looked at Paula, mouth open, about to speak. She shook her head, shaking. ‘No. I can’t. Just – don’t ask me.’

They got back into Guy’s car in awkward silence, the boom of the loudspeaker coming over from the field. They didn’t mention what Magdalena had said, or their row before. As they drove off Paula was sure she saw a new silver Mondeo parked up a side road – a car she recognised. Slumped at the wheel was a short, dark-haired woman, head bowed into her coat as if hiding. Saoirse. It didn’t take a huge leap to work out what her friend, desperate for a baby, was doing out here visiting Magdalena Croft. Oh, God. And Paula had gone to her for advice on her own unwanted pregnancy, the product of carelessness and alcohol and despair. She was so stupid. She was careful not to look back, sliding down in the seat so she too could hide from the truth.

Guy pulled out onto the main road. ‘Shall I take you to the office? I might go home. I mean, I’ll work there.’ He was stiffly polite. After their conversation, the word ‘home’ stung in the air. It was almost four, the chill of new snow hanging in the darkening sky.

Paula answered with the same distant tone. ‘If you could drop me at my car, that’d do. There’s someone I need to see.’

Chapter Nineteen

The woman in the stained armchair looked ancient, as craggy and indeterminate as stones in a field. Paula knew it would have been her eightieth birthday earlier in the year – summer. She remembered another party, a cake topped with hundreds and thousands, chasing her cousins in and out of fly curtains on a rare warm Irish day, Robinsons Fruit and Barley from a plastic cup that smelled of old sunshine. Sixty, that must have been. By the time her grandmother had turned seventy, Paula and PJ were no longer speaking to any of the Sheeran family.

‘She doesn’t always know you’re here,’ confided the young nursing assistant, who was busting out of her pink uniform in all the wrong places. ‘Mrs Sheeran! It’s your wee granddaughter to see you, isn’t that nice?’ They’d made an effort to create a festive air in the home, with a plastic tree in the corner, but it just looked sad among the walking frames and oxygen canisters. Paula realised she and her father hadn’t bothered doing anything for Christmas – no cards sent, no decorations up, no mention of it. You didn’t want to remind yourself there was someone who’d not be home for the occasion.

Wondering how old she’d have to be to stop getting called a ‘wee girl’, Paula sat down nervously on a low chair, which left her level with her grandmother’s ageing knees, like a supplicant to a queen. Her bag puddled on the floor. ‘Hello, Granny. Do you remember me?’

Kathleen Sheeran showed no sign of realising anyone was there. The face was sunk beneath waves of wrinkles like a sand castle on a beach, but the expression was the same – unyielding. She tried again. ‘It’s Paula. Margaret’s girl.’

The eyes fluttered, irises pale and washed out. They had been blue, Paula knew, the same striking blue as her own were, as her mother’s had been.
Were?
Tenses were a fraught issue with missing persons.

Kathleen croaked out some words. ‘And who would you be?’

‘I’m Paula. Your granddaughter.’

‘Oh?’ The tone between surprise and disbelief. ‘Are you Cassie?’

‘Paula. You haven’t seen me for a long time.’

For a long moment she just processed this, arthritic fingers pleating the edge of her wool skirt. Then something seemed to shift and the eyes focussed. ‘Margaret,’ she said.

Paula swallowed. She was always being told how like her mother she was, wasn’t she? ‘I’ve been away.’

‘Why did you not come to see me, Margaret? You sister’s awful cross about it. You were on the news and everything. And your PJ’s been shouting and giving out to us. We didn’t know where you went.’

‘I – I’m sorry.’ She didn’t even know how to phrase it. ‘Granny,’ she said, leaning in to the smell of talc and decay. ‘It’s Paula. Margaret’s girl. I haven’t seen you in years and I’m sorry. But I’m here now. I need to know if you remember anything about her, about Mum. Because I need her, Granny. I need her because I’m having a baby and I don’t know what to do.’ She was shaking.

Her grandmother’s eyes had wandered off. Paula reached for her hand, the skin cold and dry despite the clammy heat in the room. The school dinner smell of things boiled and kept under metal. ‘Granny, do you recognise me?’