A Savage Hunger (Paula Maguire 4) (23 page)

Alice

What’s the matter?
Katy’s face was twisted up, her hands balled inside her hoody. I could tell she’d been crying from the sheen of snot on her lip.

I can’t find it anywhere! It’s gone, it’s gone! Someone must have nicked it!

What’s gone?

My – my phone! Oh God, I can’t believe it. My whole life is on there.

On top of her other great qualities, Katy loses stuff. Canteen card, so I have to buy her lunch –
I’ll pay you back, honest!
And then she never does, of course. Her towel, her hairdryer, money. She’s a walking disaster area. Now she was full on sobbing.
Mum and Dad will kill me! I’ve only had it a few months!

Calm down, you can easily replace it. Do you have an old phone somewhere?

She wiped a hand over her face.
Uh, maybe, like a crappy Nokia.

So go back to using that.

But – how?

For God’s sake. I was the one who’d been in institutions all my life, but I swear to God Katy would never survive for a minute on her own.
Go back to pay as you go. Don’t tell your mum and dad you’ve lost it. Your contract is up soon, right?

Otherwise I’d have to lend her mine, and I didn’t trust her with it. The drama of Katy’s phone went on for days. Everyone we saw in the canteen or quad –
God, did you hear? I’ve lost my phone, nightmare.
And her FB posts:
so sorry for radio silence. Lost my phone sadface. Contact me on here, thx!
As if anyone would even notice. Stupid cow.

Then when at last she’d gone back to her old number and stopped moaning, after everything, I was changing my sheets, getting ready to move out of college – Katy didn’t do hers at all, all term, I watched – and I heard a thud as I pulled the bed out from the wall. It was down there – the stupid pink cover gave it away. I remembered now she’d been using it on my bed, snuggled up – too close as usual, watching
Pitch Perfect
, and she’d fallen asleep. I’d had to sleep on her bed. Urgh. My hands closed over it. The battery was run down, but I plugged it in to my charger – we had the same make – and it came to life. There were message icons. WhatsApp and Facebook still coming through. I clicked on WhatsApp – I remembered that Katy had set it up at the start of term, because everyone else had, but she didn’t use it because she couldn’t really work it. Normally she texted, now she’d gone back to her old Nokia.

I heard a noise – she was coming back from the shower, singing Taylor Swift. Charlotte would have puked at the sight of her, all red skin and rolls of fat.

I slipped the phone into the pocket of my hoody. I had her.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

‘Right. I’ve just spoken to the photo techs and they say they think Alice’s last selfie was actually taken in March. The light doesn’t look right for this time of year. Same goes for the last month or so – all her photos are old ones.’ Guy was showing them the pictures on the big screen, not that a casual observer would be able to see what he was talking about. People believed what they were shown online, and a picture of a girl posted in July was how that girl had looked in July. Even if it wasn’t. ‘I’ve asked them to trace Katy’s old phone too, but it’s been switched off. The last signal it gave was in Donegal.’

‘So Alice could have it?’ asked Corry.

‘Maybe. Or Dermot, of course.’

Paula had not spoken to Guy since the wedding – God, it still hurt to even think of it, a gnawing animal in her stomach – and did her best not to meet his eye. Corry said, ‘So for all we know, no one’s even seen Alice for months. Do we trust this Maureen Mackin?’ She looked at Paula.

‘I don’t think she’d lie. Pillar of the community like her? And it’s backed up by what other people said.’

‘All right. I think she’s legit too. So Alice has put on weight. Quite a bit of weight.’

‘Is that even possible?’ asked Paula. ‘How much weight could someone gain in six weeks?’

Corry said, ‘I checked with an eating disorder specialist at the Royal – you can put on about three stone in a month, if you really go at it. And Alice was tiny before, it would make a lot of difference to how she looks.’

‘So we need a photofit,’ said Guy. ‘What she’d look like now, as a size twelve.’

Willis Campbell had been listening in, looking cross. ‘Do I assume from this discussion that we now believe Alice to be alive? Because it seems to me this investigation has suffered from a
serious
lack of focus.’

‘We still don’t know,’ said Paula. ‘If we knew, we’d tell you.’ He looked askance at her tone, and she could see Guy trying to catch her eye. She ignored him.

‘I think there’s a strong chance she’s alive,’ said Guy, smoothing the moment over. ‘Or she was before Dermot Healy set off, anyway.’

Corry ran her hands over her face. ‘Real question is, should we take Avril out of Oakdale? After what we’ve just been told about Peter?’

Willis folded his arms. ‘We have Ms Butcher in the interview room, yes?’

‘For now. We’ll have to let her go soon or charge her with something.’

‘And we need something concrete. We’ve had two of them in so far – I’m not hauling in the other boy just so we can let him go as well. We need something that sticks. A confession, ideally. Constable Wright has established contact with the Franks boy?’

They all looked at Paula. ‘Um . . . she thinks that he likes her, yes.’

‘She might be in danger,’ said Corry. ‘We’re not sure if Dermot had worked out she was undercover. It’s possible they all know.’

Willis spoke carefully. ‘If we let Constable Wright carry on, what are the chances she could get some actual proof – make Franks show his hand?’

Paula digested what he was saying. Bait. He wanted to use Avril as bait. ‘He might, yes, but . . .’

He was looking at her with distaste. ‘Dr Maguire. You’ve said several times you thought Dermot Healy was the brains of the outfit. So there’s a high chance Franks will do something stupid now, yes?’

‘I don’t know, but maybe, I—’

‘Right. So here’s what we do – we send Katy Butcher back in. Drop some hints that if she helps us out, she might escape charges herself.’

Corry blinked. ‘Her lawyer wouldn’t let that get by.’

‘Well, tell her without the lawyer, then. Honestly, DS Corry – ’ he seemed to pronounce her demoted title with relish – ‘anyone would think you’d never run a major investigation. If Katy helps get us Franks, we’ll maybe overlook the fact she lied to us. Or we can at least let her think that.’

Corry tried again. ‘Sir, I don’t know if we can trust Katy to that extent.’

‘We don’t have to tell her about Constable Wright. Just hint that if she can help us get Franks in some way, we’ll go easy on her.’

‘But sir . . .’

‘Listen to me. This speculation, this running about, it’s all very well, but someone around here has to actually make a decision,’ he snapped. ‘DS Corry, talk to the girl. Get her assistance. And brief Constable Wright that we need to draw Franks out. Maybe he’ll do that stupid thing sooner than we think.’

As long as that something didn’t get Avril hurt. Paula wanted to protest, convince him to pull Avril out, but she had no other ideas. Corry met her eyes, grim-faced, as she got up to follow Willis.

Guy lingered. ‘Paula. Are you all right?’

She busied herself gathering her papers. ‘I’m worried about Avril. She’s my friend.’

‘I didn’t mean about that.’

She looked away. Of course she wasn’t all right. ‘I’m dealing with it.’

‘I’m so sorry for the way I – I honestly thought it would be better coming from me than Willis. There was nothing else I could do. I promise you. I wasn’t trying to . . . you know.’

She said nothing.

‘Was I wrong? Did I make it worse?’ He looked wretched.

She honestly didn’t know; could anything have made that moment better? Watching Aidan be packed into the car, and taken away, and her left in the porch with all their guests and her stupid wedding dress?

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘No. It doesn’t matter anyway. I just want to get on with my job. Can I do that, please?’

‘OK. But just please know that – if I could have stopped it, I would have.’

‘Yeah,’ said Paula tonelessly. She wasn’t ready to forgive him just yet. Even if she knew that, really, it wasn’t his fault. Because she couldn’t forgive herself for that moment in the church porch, when he’d appeared in his suit, and she’d just for a second been happy to see him.

It took Paula almost an hour to drive to work the next day. A night of more riots had left the town broken, roads closed with burnt-out cars, stones and rubbish littering the streets. She’d lain awake in the double bed, which now seemed huge and empty, and seen the glow of fires over the town. Wondering if Aidan could see it too, in his prison cell. She hadn’t been back to visit him. She couldn’t face it, not until she’d decided what to do about Maggie. How she would tell Guy. Whether she could ever forgive Aidan. Or herself.

In the morning Maggie came charging in, jumping on the bed and rooting about in the covers. ‘Where’s Daddy? Where’s Daddy, Mummy?’

‘He’s not here, pet. We talked about this.’

But Maggie was too young to understand. She looked everywhere. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, in the bathroom. ‘Where’s Daddy? Where’s Daddy?’ The tears starting. The sound of a two-year-old crying inconsolably was more than Paula could bear.

‘Come on, pet. We’ll see Daddy soon. He’s just gone away for a wee bit.’ She scooped Maggie into her arms, her pyjamas quickly getting wet with tears. She felt like crying herself.
He isn’t your daddy. I’m sorry, Mags. We lied to you. He isn’t your daddy at all.

Downstairs, she was greeted by the half-built kitchen, the cupboards hanging loose, everything in limbo like a bad metaphor for her life. This had to stop. They had to finish the work, so she could actually make some decisions and move on, to whatever life was now left to her.

‘You’re saying this happens a lot?’

‘Well, yeah. Do you not know the joke?’ Gerard was explaining the riots to a bemused Guy Brooking when Paula finally made it in. ‘What does the calendar go like in Northern Ireland? January, February, March, March, March . . . we just like a bit of a riot every now and again. Trash the place up a bit, throw stuff at the peelers. Conlon’s death is just an excuse. Could be anything.’

‘Like in London the year before last,’ said Guy.

‘Not like that,’ said Paula irritably, dumping her bag at her desk. ‘Remember when everyone said let’s get the water cannons on the London rioters, and all the more liberal ones said no it’s too brutal? Well, the reason there aren’t any in London is that there are three in Belfast. For our annual riot
season
.’

‘You have to win everything here, don’t you?’ He spoke lightly, almost teasingly, though his face was anxious.

Ah, bollocks. It was hardly Guy’s fault Aidan had lost the head and ruined everything. And could she blame him, when she still hadn’t found the strength to talk to him about Maggie? She just had to get through this case, then everything could be sorted out. She tried to match his light tone. ‘Come on, if rioting was an Olympic sport we’d have medalled in every Games.’ Saw his look of relief.

‘Every summer, is it? There were riots the year Yvonne went missing too, weren’t there?’

‘Yeah. Shut the whole town down, my dad said.’ How history repeated. In 1981, a missing girl, a dead terrorist. Same now. And no answers to any of it, all of it a mystery tangled in on itself.

Paula stopped suddenly. Yes, there had been riots the year Yvonne O’Neill was lost. It was why the police had taken so long to get out to Crocknashee – the roads had been blocked. No one getting in or out from lunchtime till nearly midnight.

‘Paula?’ Guy was watching her. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Um. Maybe. I don’t know.’ She pulled a piece of paper towards her and quickly made some sketches. Her lips pursed as she moved it, then counted on her fingers, muttering to herself. ‘No one in or out – not till late – but he was back in the afternoon. Yvonne’s mother saw his car! She said so!’

‘Who?’ Guy was looking baffled. He glanced at her scribbles. ‘Is that a map?’

Paula tapped the big blob she’d drawn. ‘Ballyterrin.’ Then the small house shape. ‘The church. That’s where Yvonne was last seen. And Garrett’s alibi was he was at work. But Yvonne’s mother said his car was there during the day. Why would his car be there? There was no way he could have been there at four o’clock. Unless he never went into town at all.’

She saw Guy was nodding, getting it. ‘What should we—’

‘Wait. I just need to check something first.’ Paula scooped up her bag. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

She knew she wasn’t supposed to. She knew she was meant to sit in the office, looking at files, observing, writing reports. But this, this she could do – find things out. Talk to people. Hear what they were actually saying, in the spaces between their words. And at the moment, she could not do anything else, not comfort her child, not save Aidan, not make Pat better. So she was going to do this instead – Willis Campbell be damned.

‘Can I help you?’ The woman had a small child by the hand, a little older than Maggie, eating a rice cake and wearing a blue T-shirt. A boy, maybe. They were almost in the door of the terraced house; the woman was fumbling with the keys.

Paula smiled, tried to look non-threatening. ‘I’m looking for the family of Andrew Philips.’

‘I’m his daughter. Suzanne.’ Straightforward, but not warm.

‘Suzanne, I’m Dr Maguire from the PSNI – we’re investigating an old case which your father gave evidence in. The Yvonne O’Neill disappearance.’

Suzanne put the key in the lock, without taking her eyes off Paula. ‘I think I remember hearing about that, yes.’

‘We interviewed Anderson Garrett at the time – your father gave him an alibi.’

‘That’s right. Dad worked for them for years and years. Then he set up on his own.’ Paula was surprised at the shabbiness of the terraced house, if her father had owned his own law firm. ‘What do you need from me?’ asked Suzanne.

‘Well, I think that Garrett couldn’t have been in work that day after all. There were riots, the place shut down – he’d not have been able to get home in time. But we have a witness says his car was there that day.’

‘So you’re checking if I know anything?’

‘Your father was the only one who could alibi Garrett, Suzanne – I need to check it out.’ She couldn’t explain that it felt like a loose end. One tug and the whole fabric might unravel.

‘Dr Maguire. My dad’s been dead a long time. I don’t know about that year – I wasn’t born – but I know the Garretts had some hold over him. Even after he’d his own firm, Anderson or the old lady could call – Anderson wasn’t much of a lawyer, by all accounts – and Dad would always go running. Mum used to tell him, that family says jump, Andrew, and you say how high?’

‘You don’t have any idea why?’

‘No. Like I say, I wasn’t born then.’ The little boy pulled at her arm, grizzling. ‘OK, OK, we’ll go in now.’ She turned to Paula, ponytail flipping. ‘I’m sorry I don’t know more. I hope you find something. Terrible, to be lost all this time.’

‘Thank you.’

At the door, Suzanne turned back. The boy was inside, taking off his shoes with great song and dance. ‘Dr Maguire? I don’t want to speak ill of my father – but if it helps, well, we lost the law firm when I was twelve. And the house.’

Paula stopped. Under her hand the wood of the gate was rough, sun-warmed. ‘Do you know why?’

‘Well, yes. The bookie’s shop. Dad was a gambling addict. So.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know if that’s something to do with it. Maybe he owed the Garretts money.’

Paula thanked her, and she went into the house, and Paula went to her car. If Andrew Philips had lied, if the Garretts had forced him to because of debts, that could be it. The dangling thread they needed. And if Garrett had killed Yvonne, maybe he’d killed Alice too. She found herself thinking, what strangers our parents are. The people who bring us up, make our breakfast, give birth to us. They have whole lives we know nothing about. Her own mother’s life was as dark and impenetrable as the waters of Lough Derg, just like this case. But there was one person who might be able to shed some light on both.