The Silent Dead (Paula Maguire 3) (5 page)

Chapter Five

‘You OK with the belt?’ Gerard and Paula were driving to one of the dodgier parts of town in a police-issue Skoda. He’d reluctantly agreed to leave behind his beloved Jeep – it was too recognisable as a PSNI vehicle, and in the area they were visiting, that was enough to get you two slashed tyres, and if you were very unlucky, a car bomb underneath.

‘I’ll manage.’ She arranged it awkwardly round the bump.

‘Not long now then.’

‘No.’ She ran her hands over it, stretched tight. ‘It’s very heavy – it’ll be a relief in some ways.’ But not in all, because then she’d be forced to take time off work. She winced as a foot caught her kidney. Gerard saw it and his eyebrows went up in alarm. ‘Relax, I’m not going to break my waters all over the car.’

‘Say if you are. I wouldn’t have a baldy what to do.’

Paula also wasn’t keen on having her child by the side of the road with only Gerard Monaghan’s big lug for assistance. ‘I’ve a while yet. Just take me there.’

Gerard was eating a packet of Tayto Cheese and Onion crisps, the smell filling the car, turning her stomach. ‘I am,’ he said through a handful. ‘It’s not the best area, you know. I’m surprised—’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. It’s just, in your condition . . .’

‘I’m not dying.’

‘Hm.’ He kept stealing glances at the bump, his fingers crumbed with crisps. ‘I’d not want my wife working right up to the day of the birth.’

‘Oh right. I must have missed something, then. Do you actually have a wife?’

‘No, but— . . .’

‘She’s unlikely to be working, then, is she? Since, you know, she doesn’t actually exist.’ Gerard sulked, rattling the last bits out of his crisp bag. It was pure revenge that made Paula say the next thing. ‘I see Avril’s set a date for the wedding.’ She watched him for a reaction, but none came. Nothing had happened since that odd moment at Christmas – Avril was getting married, Gerard flirted with every female in sight, and Fiacra, who’d taken Avril’s engagement hard, had morphed from a cheerful young country boy to a moody, ambitious thorn in all their sides. Although he had other reasons to have changed, admittedly. ‘I wonder if we’ll be invited,’ she said.

‘Dunno. You’ll hardly be able to go anyway, with the wean.’

‘Hmm.’ She relented – she was hardly the person to poke her nose into other people’s affairs. Although officially no one knew Guy might be the father of Paula’s baby, she was sure everyone had noticed the spark when they’d first met, and if they could count at all, it wasn’t a huge leap to make. She shut up, and they drove the rest of the way in silence. Soon they were passing walls covered in murals – Hunger Strikers, Peelers Out, Bloody Sunday memorials. Centuries of bitterness slapped up there in lurid colours. They parked in a rundown estate where the kerbs were painted green, white and gold. Immediately a crowd of kids gathered. ‘Here, mister, that’s a nice car.’

‘Thanks.’ Gerard locked it. ‘Who’s gonna keep an eye on it for me?’

‘Me, me!’

He picked out the tallest lad, freckled in a Celtic jersey. ‘I’ll give you two quid if it’s all in one piece when I get back. Come on, Maguire.’

‘I see none of them were prospering, anyway,’ said Gerard. ‘Bit of a dump, this.’

Catherine Ni Chonnaill lived with her three children in a sad, pebble-dashed end of terrace. The overgrown grass in the front yard was mined with bin bags and broken toys, and when they rang the bell the paint on the door was flaking.

It was opened a short while after by a sixtyish woman, shouting at a pit bull terrier to be quiet as it worried around her heels, pressing its wet nose into Paula’s leg.

‘What do yis want?’ The eyes travelled to Paula’s bump.

‘We’re with the MPRU,’ said Gerard. ‘The Missing Persons Response Unit. Could we come in, please, ma’am?’

The ‘ma’am’ usually did the trick. She stood aside to let them into the dingy living room. It smelled of fags and the brown carpet was marked by cigarette burns. Two children, a boy and a girl, sat watching cartoons on a big TV. They didn’t look up as Paula and Gerard came in. There was nowhere else to sit – the kids were on the crumby sofa, and propped on the brown velvet armchair was a baby, sniffling, his face encrusted with baked beans. The woman, who was presumably his grandmother, wiped his face with a tea towel and asked again what it was they were wanting.

‘We need a word with you about your daughter,’ said Gerard. ‘It’d be better if the wee ones didn’t hear, though, if you see.’

‘Tara, Owen, go outside.’

‘Wa-ah!’ The boy, who had two pierced ears and a Man United shirt, grumbled.

The grandma swatted him with her towel. ‘Get out of my sight, you wee skitter.’

It was windy outside, and a light drizzle pattered down, but the children went, both in bare arms. Seven and five, Paula knew they were. ‘Well?’ said the grandmother. ‘I’m feeding the wee one so I can hardly put him out.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked Paula.

‘Peadar.’ The third child, the one who wasn’t Ronan Lynch’s. He stopped grizzling when a plastic spoon with more beans was shoved in his mouth, but Paula couldn’t tear her eyes from him, the food mess, the snot round his pudgy nose, and the smell of dirty nappy wafting from his little blue jeans.

‘Mrs Ni Chonnaill,’ she said. ‘I’m a forensic psychologist, so my role in the unit is to produce reports on the missing to see if there’s anything that might have made them go.’

‘It’s Mrs Connell. I don’t hold with that Irish rubbish. And you’d be better served looking after your husband, love, ’stead of parading about with all and sundry looking at your belly.’

Paula blinked. ‘Er – well – never mind me. I need to ask you about Catherine. Obviously we’re very worried about her, since Mickey Doyle’s death. Where do you think she is?’

It was a question so obvious it rarely got asked, but Paula found it could be surprisingly useful. Know the person and you’d often know where they were. ‘Who knows with Catherine? She’s most likely annoyed the Ra again and gone off.’

‘You’re saying she sometimes left the country to escape the IRA?’

‘Aye, two or three times. Around the Belfast Agreement. They don’t like all that Ireland First business, the Ra.’

‘Your husband died in 2004, I believe?’ Gerard was making notes again.

‘Not soon enough, ould bastard that he was.’

The child put up his dirty hands for the spoon. Paula averted her eyes. ‘And these other times, did Catherine tell you she was going?’

‘Oh aye. She’d ring from phone boxes and that. I told her to stay away, make a life in England, but her da wanted her back.’

‘But she hasn’t phoned this time?’

‘Not a word since the text. She said she was late at work and would I lift them from school. What did your last maid die of, I texted back, and could she not have rung me at least? But she never answered.’

‘I see. And she hadn’t been to work that day, it turned out?’

‘So they said. Never turned up.’ Catherine had last been seen getting into her car after dropping Peadar at daycare. Somewhere between there and her office on the outskirts of Ballyterrin, she’d vanished.

‘Mrs Connell,’ Paula hesitated. ‘Is it fair to say you’re not overly worried about your daughter? You don’t think she’s been abducted, you think she’s safe somewhere?’

‘Missus, I’ve been expecting her dead since she was ten years old, but she scrapes through. She’ll be grand, you’ll see. I’m more worried about being landed with these weans.’

‘The oldest two, they’re Ronan Lynch’s children? He has also been reported missing, as you know. Could they have left together?’

‘In his dreams. She wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire these days, useless galoot that he is.’

‘I’m sorry, but are you able to tell us who the father of – Peadar – is?’ Paula lowered her voice, as if the child could understand. He looked on with watery blue eyes, uncomprehending.

‘You’d have to ask Catherine.’ The grandmother was suddenly tetchy. ‘I’ve no more idea than you do. Is that all now? I’m a busy woman.’

‘All right. Thank you.’

Behind her, the baby had seen something on the muted TV and was pointing at it. His granny poked the spoon at his mouth. ‘Quiet now, what’s wrong with you?’

He was crying now, pushing the food away, reaching out for the screen, his sobs turning to wails. Paula followed his gaze. On the TV behind them, the news, and on it the pretty, sulky face of Peadar’s mother. Catherine Ni Chonnaill was forty years old and looked thirty, a beautiful, fair-haired woman with a strong, ruthless gaze.

‘Shut your face, Peadar,’ said his granny, poking the spoon at him once more.

‘He wants his mother,’ said Paula quietly. And who had taken her away from him?

Extract from
The Blood Price: The Mayday
Bombing and its Aftermath
, by Maeve Cooley
(Tairise Press, 2011)

Interview with John Lenehan

I sent my son into town that morning. He wouldn’t have gone otherwise, you see. He was like all young lads – he’d lie in his bed till teatime if you let him. He’d this holiday booked in Majorca and I said he shouldn’t be going unless he could earn the money. You do hear all sorts of stories. Drinking and carrying on. So I says get up and change some currency if you’re going. Take it out of your post office account. His mammy’d paid for the holiday, but she was soft on him. I didn’t want him spoiled, you see. He was our only child – his mammy was near forty when she had him.

Anyway. I make him get up and go to town and I tell him to get his mammy some shopping while he’s there. She’d usually let him keep the change but I said I’ll check the receipt. He was nineteen, you see, miss. I thought he should be working. So we had words, and he went off, all sulky like. Mary went after him and she gave him a big hug at the gate. So she had that at least. I’d been fighting with him. I have to live with it.

I was working on the farm that day, painting a fence. Mary came down about one. I could see her running out of the house. She’d no shoes on, just running in the mud. Her hair all falling down. I knew something was wrong but I just went on painting. Until she got there, you see. Until she told me and it was all going to be different.

There’s been a bomb in town,
she says, and her face was all wild
. They’re saying on the news. Come quick, come quick.

So she runs to the house and I just put the lid back on the paint. Don’t know why I did that. And I walk. Slow like. She’s the TV on and there’s High Street and it’s all smoke. It’s like a film. Neither of us says anything. Then I goes,
He’ll have been heading home by now.

He might have gone to the shops.

Sure he’s no cash of his own.

She didn’t look at me, and I knew she’d given him the money
. Did you phone his mobile
? I hate those things, terrible waste of money they are, but I was right glad he had one that day
.

He’s not answering
. Mary’s voice was all funny
.

They’ll have no reception. It’ll knock down the wires or something.
Mary turns to look at me. I was well past forty when I wed her, and she was the most beautiful girl I ever saw. Danny was like her, he’d her dark hair and her eyes. I’ll never forget her blue eyes.
Will you go, John,
she said
.

So I get in my van. I wish to God I never saw what I saw that day. A lot of the families, they stayed at home, or they didn’t hear about it till later. I went, you see. I couldn’t get in the whole way, the army was there, but there was blood running down the street. It was sort of raining blood onto your face. The petrol station was on fire and the bank had fallen down, they said. I just keep thinking he’ll be finished by now, he’ll be finished. I kept shouting,
Danny, Danny
! And they’re saying,
You can’t be here, sir, go to the hospital if you’ve lost someone, he might be there.
There was all sirens and you could hear people screaming – you’ve seen the video, aye? It was like that, but it was worse. Alarms going off everywhere. You could smell it. The oil, and the blood, you know.
Sir,
they said,
you have to go,
and they’re in their masks and suits, and I look up and there’s the tree and in it somebody’s arm. A woman’s. The watch still on it
.

Anyway, I went to the hospital, but I couldn’t get in for traffic so I just got out and left the van there in the road and walked in.

Yes, I found him there. He was – well, he was still alive at that point. But I told his mother he wasn’t. I told her he was at peace. Sometimes you have to lie to people if you care for them.

Chapter Six

Although Paula hadn’t known Maeve Cooley for long, she’d already started to think of her as a friend and colleague. But both Maeve and she had been distinctly cool for the past few months – Facebook messages long unanswered, no kisses at the end of text messages. For Paula’s part, which she knew was irrational – he hadn’t been her boyfriend since she was eighteen – it had been finding Aidan half-naked in Maeve’s bedroom that day in Dublin. For Maeve’s part, Paula guessed Aidan had passed on the news she’d given him one grey January day in Ballyterrin General Hospital, windows lashed by melting snow, herself recovering from a knife attack and barely able to walk. ‘So you know I’m . . . eh—’

‘Pregnant. Yeah,’ he’d mumbled, staring at the floor. She was telling him now because she’d almost died and that ought to give her a small amount of leeway, surely?

‘How much . . . I mean, when . . . ?’

‘Three, four months or so.’ She watched him adding up, his head sinking lower.

‘Oh,’ he’d said.

Paula decided just to say it, ripping off the bandage. ‘I slept with Guy.’

Aidan’s head had jerked up. She went on hastily. ‘Before us, I mean. It was – we’d found Cathy Carr’s body, and I – it just happened.’

Aidan took this in, his face slowly hardening. ‘It’s not mine, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying I have no idea. Honest to God, I don’t. It could be . . . either.’

‘Can you not count? You’ve got a doctorate, for fuck’s sake.’

‘It takes two, you know? I don’t remember you saying let’s stop and find a condom.’

‘I was pissed!’

‘Well, I was – oh, I don’t know. It just happened. And you lambasting me about safer sex really isn’t going to help. And someone just tried to kill me and take the baby, so I’d really like to not get in a row, OK?’

Aidan had stared at the floor some more, rubbing his dark head with one hand. Nicotine stained, bitten-nailed, story notes smudged in ink on the back. His hands made her sad. ‘Have you told Brooking?’

‘No. I’m telling you first.’

If she’d hoped that would placate him, there was no sign of it. ‘If you want money, tell me. Or whatever you decide.’

She earned more than him, but didn’t say this. ‘You don’t have to – I decided to have it . . .’ (Her – it was a girl, but she felt squeamish saying this to him. For him, it was still just a massive problem.) ‘I thought about it a lot, you know, but in the end I couldn’t— . . .’

‘You were going to have an abortion.’

She’d shut her eyes. ‘Aidan, if you go all pro-life on me, I swear to God I will kick your head in. As soon as I’m able, I mean. You don’t get to be arsey with me and moralistic. This might be my body it’s happening to but I didn’t do it on my own.’

He looked angry, muttered, ‘Wish you hadn’t slept with him too. He’s fucking married and all. I never thought you’d be the type, Maguire.’

Her hands clutched in the pillows. ‘I really will kick your arse when I’m better. I didn’t cheat on anyone, did I? Anyway, I thought she’d left him. She was in London. And – you dumped me, remember?’

‘Ah, here we go. It was years ago! Anything else you want to bring up? Did I do something in the Famine too, or at the Battle of the Boyne?’ He blinked a few times. ‘I’ll leave you be. Tell me what you want me to do.’ He paused at the door. ‘You’re not even sorry, Maguire. I know you didn’t mean it, but – me, and him, for fuck’s sake. The Brit cop. You’re so taken up defending yourself you never even think to say sorry.’

And the news had clearly filtered through to Maeve. She’d of course taken the side of Aidan, her friend since university – more than a friend, maybe. It was something Paula tended to dwell on late at night, as the baby kicked at her insides. That’s if she wasn’t thinking about Guy playing Happy Families with his wife and daughter.

She’d emailed Maeve to say she’d be in Dublin but there was no answer, so she drove down alone, parking her car in a side street in Donnybrook and waddling out in the warm spring sunshine. Was it OK to park there? She couldn’t make sense of the sign, it was all hours and numbers and her brain couldn’t take it in. The place was a red-brick Georgian town house, with a shiny navy door and bay trees in pots outside. Paula climbed the ten steps with difficulty and leaned on the bell. Nothing happened for a while, then it was opened by a grey-haired women holding a duster.

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs De Rossa?’ Surely not, she looked too old.

‘Are you press?’

‘No. I’m – here.’ She handed over her police ID. ‘I’d just like a quick word.’

‘She’s not seeing anyone.’ Presumably this was the cleaner or something. Roisin Flaherty, married to the head of a big Southern bank, had come a long way from the farm she’d grown up on. The door shut as Paula thought of what to say and she found this rather rude – she was pregnant, for God’s sake.

She leaned heavily on the bell, and the cleaner opened the door again. ‘I’m sorry, miss, you—’

‘Could I please have a glass of water? I’m so sorry. You see, I’m pregnant, and it’s awfully warm today, can I just – I’m a little faint.’

‘Let her in, Nancy, for God’s sake.’ A voice had come from further back in the house, from the hallway smelling of polish and lilies. In the gloom Paula could see a woman not much older than she was, with set blonde hair, in a cashmere jumper and dark slacks. Silver bracelets up one arm. Expensive. ‘Do come in and sit down. Nancy, would you get her some water – or tea, if you prefer?’

‘Tea would be lovely,’ Paula murmured, as she was led into a sitting room that was painfully formal and clean. Like a hotel, almost, with a deep grey sofa and a mirrored coffee table, navy silk paper on the walls. ‘I’m sorry. The heat gets to you, doesn’t it?’ She knew Roisin had children.

‘Oh yes. I remember it well.’ She stood, twisting her hands. ‘Is this about what I think?’

‘I’m afraid it’s about your father, yes. I’m Dr Paula Maguire from the Missing Persons Response Unit in Ballyterrin.’

The woman flinched, as if from a physical blow. She had a chunky silver necklace about her neck, which she fingered nervously. ‘I don’t think I can help.’

The door opened and the cleaner appeared with tea on a tray, white china cups and a pot, a plate of shortbread which slender Roisin De Rossa would not eat. The woman gave Paula a fierce stare and went out, shutting the door loudly.

Paula settled into the sofa. May as well use her situation to extract the maximum cooperation from witnesses; it was good for precious little else. ‘I’m sure this is a very anxious time for you.’

‘I don’t—’

‘I mean, he’s still your father, isn’t he?’

Roisin took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a second. She checked the door to see if it was securely shut, then picked up a remote, which she aimed at a black stereo on the bookshelf. It looked more like a pebble in the river than electronic equipment, which showed it had been very dear indeed. ‘How do you work this thing – oh. There.’ Loud pop music came pouring out, One Direction or something, setting Paula’s teeth on edge. ‘Sorry. Kids. There we are.’

Soothing classical, the soar of heavenly voices. Paula understood this was to mask their conversation.

Roisin sat down, twitching at her trousers until she was ready. ‘I’m sorry you came all this way – Dr Maguire, was it?’

‘Yes. I’m a forensic psychologist but I work with the police team. I’m working on your father’s case.’

Again the flinch. ‘Please, I don’t – I can’t help you. You see, I don’t know him any more.’

‘You’re estranged?’

‘Of course we are.’ Her lips tightened. ‘When I was wee, of course, I didn’t understand, and at university I was in that crowd, you know – we thought we were doing right . . .’ She trailed off. ‘I never knew what he was at. That he was actually involved in it.’

‘The IRA?’ Paula didn’t lower her voice, and Roisin turned pale.

‘Please – my kids. They have no idea. They’ve never met him. They don’t know my maiden name. We never go north.’

Why would you, Paula thought, if you could sit in splendour in Dublin 4, with organic vegetables and clothes from Brown Thomas? ‘Mrs De Rossa. I understand you want to distance yourself from your family.’

‘My childhood,’ she corrected. ‘I made my own family here, with Dermot and the weans.’

‘OK. But we can’t find anyone who knows a thing about your father. He left the IRA, I gather, after the Good Friday Agreement?’

‘Yes, he was very angry. We – we still spoke, back then. He felt I’d betrayed him, you see. When I left mostly I gave up following politics. I thought there was enough fighting and blood spilled. My weans – I didn’t want them part of all that. I wanted them safe.’

‘And when did you find out about his role in the bomb, his alleged role, I mean?’

Roisin lowered her gaze, biting her lip. ‘I had no idea. Really, I don’t – I mean, he was political, and he talked the talk, but to do that . . .’ Paula realised she was angry. ‘I was pregnant at the time. With my second. And that wee baby who was killed . . . Oh God.’ She gave a shuddering sigh. ‘I’m not asking anyone to be sorry for me, not when all those poor people died, but it was awful, just awful.’

‘I can imagine. So who told you about it?’

‘It was on the news. We were having our dinner and Dermot said turn that up, and I was carrying a bowl of couscous and didn’t I drop it down on the flagstones and it broke everywhere. Sixteen dead – and then his picture came up. They said maybe it was linked to his group.’

‘Did you believe it?’

‘Not at first. I rang him. I was in hysterics. Daddy, I said, they’re saying it’s you. Did you do it? He was quiet. He didn’t say no. Then he said, you should get off the line, Roisin. That was it. So – I knew. We flew to France the next day for a month. Dermot has a sister there. It was—’ She got a hold of herself. ‘So I didn’t talk to him after that. And the trial and all . . . I didn’t go. I stopped watching the news and we don’t take the papers. Dermot takes them in the office, but I told him he’s to tell me nothing. Unless Daddy actually dies.’ She looked at Paula suddenly. ‘Is that—’

‘We don’t know that he’s dead. But we’ve found the body of one of the accused Five, and the others are still missing. We couldn’t find anyone who really knew your father. Is there any other family?’

‘Mammy’s dead. Thank God. She never believed he’d hurt a fly.’

It was especially sad to be glad your own mother was dead, and this made Paula feel a certain kinship to the woman. She’d often thought it would be better to know for sure that her own mother was dead, if it was peaceful, if it would have been quick. She shifted again; she needed to pee. ‘Did you know any of the others? Catherine Ni Chonnaill – she’s not much older than you.’

Roisin’s lips tightened further. ‘Mammy used to say that woman would shoot her own baby for a united Ireland. She’s evil. Pure evil.’

And probably also dead, Paula thought. ‘So you can’t think of anyone your father might have talked to, spent time with?’

‘I wouldn’t know. But he cut a lot of ties after the bomb. Even the Republican hardliners, the Thirty-two County Sovereignty Movement and the Continuity lot, they felt it was botched. The warnings weren’t right, it went off too early. There was no need for civilians to die, and it cost them a lot of support in the States. That sort of thing.’

How did she know this, if she hadn’t spoken to him since 2006? ‘Roisin. He got in touch, didn’t he?’

‘No, I . . .’

‘Please. When was it?’

She sagged. Her voice came from somewhere near her feet. ‘A week ago. The day that he – went.’

Right before they’d disappeared. Paula leaned forward. ‘What did he say?’

‘Oh, I don’t – I didn’t know it was him, of course, or I wouldn’t have answered . . . I told him never to call and he didn’t have the number, I thought – but it was him. Thank God the kids were at school.’

‘What did he say?’ Paula asked again.

‘He said – he was sorry. I said I’d put the phone down. He said, I mean I’m sorry for you, Roisin. It was your life too. And I’m sorry for all of it. And I said – I said it was too late for sorry.’

‘And?’

‘And he said he knew, but he had to say it anyway. And then he said, goodbye, Roisin, pet. God bless. And he hung up.’ She was weeping now. ‘And then a few days later I heard he was gone.’

‘You think he knew something was going to happen?’

‘I was waiting to hear he’d killed himself,’ Roisin sobbed. ‘I thought that’s why he called. I’m sorry.’ Her tears were leaving streaks in her make-up. ‘It’s just he was my father, and I used to love him, and I’ve lost him too, but I’m not allowed to say. I’m not allowed to grieve, because he was a monster, but—’

‘He was your dad.’ Paula reached for the woman’s cold hand. ‘It’s OK, Roisin. You’ve done your best. Look . . . you’ve a lovely house, lovely family – you did your best. None of us can do any more than that.’

Roisin looked up, her face pale as bone. ‘He doesn’t realise,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t realise how many people’s lives he ruined. And I don’t just mean the ones he killed.’

Kira

Kira was eating her tea when it came on the news. She always ate it on her own now, ever since Rose died. Then, she used to come home from school and do her homework while Rose would sit with her college assignments (she was studying childcare) and they’d work away, sharing biscuits off a plate and with a pot of tea on the coaster. Jammie Dodgers were their favourites but sometimes Rose would get a new kind in the shop and they’d try them. Then Mammy would come home and they’d all eat tea with the news on.

Not now.

Mammy never ate dinner any more. She put Kira’s tea in front of her and stood in the kitchen, wiping everything, staring at nothing. Tonight, like sometimes happened, she hadn’t made any tea at all. It got to six and the oven was still cold and empty and Mammy was in front of the TV, her plastic bottle that she said was water beside her. So Kira put a frozen pizza into the oven and ate it at the table on her own, though it hadn’t cooked right and the doughy bits got stuck in her mouth.

Times like this, she could imagine Rose there. She had a little chat with her in her head. Rose would be washing the dishes, putting them shiny-wet in the rack.