The Cold, Cold Ground (12 page)

“I’m afraid not, sir,” I said.

“They both met the Pope when he came to Ireland in ‘79. Come on, you know who I’m talking about.”

Brennan had that unfortunate habit of assuming that all Catholics went to the same mass in the same chapel at the same time.

“Nope.”

“Ok, well, anyway, Lucy’s husband Seamus goes up to the Maze Prison last year for weapons possession and for one reason and another they get divorced.”

“He’s IRA?”

“Of course.”

“They don’t like it when their wives divorce them and they’re in prison.”

“No, not in theory. But apparently he didn’t mind too much because Seamus Moore has a wee woman on the side. More than one.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Anyway. They’re divorced. He’s up for his stretch. She’s living back with her ma and da and everything’s normal until last Christmas Eve. And then she goes missing. The family can’t find her so they put out feelers in the community and when that doesn’t work they call us.”

“Seamus had her killed from the inside?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Seamus doesn’t have the power for that. He’s a pretty minor player. She just goes missing. It’s Christmas time and we’re short-staffed, so I took charge of the investigation.”

“You were lead?” I asked, a little surprised.

“It was a defining case. It’s my job to show that we are the cops for both sides in Carrickfergus, Protestant and Catholic. So yes, I was running it and I ran Matty and McCrabban ragged and I pulled out all the stops but we couldn’t bloody find her.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“Christmas Eve. Barn Halt. She was waiting for the Belfast train to come and she just vanished.”

“Poof! Gone! Just like that?”

“Poof. Gone. Just like that. I was pretty aggrieved that we couldn’t find a trace of her. But then in January the family started getting letters and postcards from her saying she was ok and not to worry about her.”

“Genuine letters?”

“Aye. We had the handwriting analysed.”

“Where were they posted?”

“Over the border. The Irish Republic: Cork, Dublin, all over.”

“So she just ran away. No mystery there. Happens all the time. Not a happy ending but not a tragic one either,” I said.

“That’s what I thought,” Brennan said with a sigh. “That’s
what I told Mrs O’Neill. ‘Don’t worry, she’s run away, I’ve seen it a million times. She’ll be all right’.”

He got up, walked to the window, leaned his forehead against the glass. His big greying, Viking head of hair mooshed against the pane. He suddenly looked very old.

“What is it?” I asked.

“She’s been found.”

“Dead?”

“Get your team, get a Land Rover and drive up to Woodburn Forest. You’re meeting the ranger there, a man called De Sloot,” he muttered.

“Yes, sir.”

In ten minutes we were in the country.

Rolling hills, small farms, cows, sheep, horses – a world away from the Troubles.

Another ten minutes and we were at Woodburn Forest, a small deciduous wood surrounded by new plantations of pine and fir. The ranger was meeting us at the south-west entrance.

“There he is,” I said and pulled in the Land Rover.

He was a lean, older guy with ruddy red face and close-cropped grey hair. He was wearing a Barbour jacket, hiking boots and a flat cap.

“Everybody out!” I said to Crabbie in the front and Matty in the back.

“I’m De Sloot,” the ranger said with a Dutch accent. We did the handshakes and I helped Matty unpack his gear.

De Sloot was all business. “This way, if you please,” he said.

We followed him through a cutting in the wood up a steep hill and into one of the older sections of the pine forest.

The trees were tall and densely packed together. So dense in fact that the forest floor was a dark, inert wasteland of pine needles and little else. As we went deeper we had to turn on our flashlights. The hill was north-facing and it was a good five or six degrees colder than the temperature outside the wood. In
hollows and against rock faces there were even patches of snow that had survived the spring rains.

“Who found the body?” I asked De Sloot.

“I did. Or rather my dogs did. A fox had been reported attacking sheep and I thought they had found him or a badger, but of course I was mistaken.”

“You saw the fox?”

“No, it was a report.”

“Who reported it?” I asked.

“A man,” De Sloot said.

“What man?” I insisted.

“I don’t know. I got a phone call this morning that a fox had been attacking sheep and it had gone into Woodburn Forest.”

“Describe the man’s voice.”

“Northern Irish? I think. Male.”

“What else? How old?”

“I don’t know.”

“What exactly did he say?”

De Sloot thought for a moment.

“He asked me if I was the ranger for Woodburn Forest. I said that I was. He said ‘A fox has been worrying sheep. I saw him go into Woodburn Forest.’ That was all. Then he hung up.”

“What time was this at?” Crabbie asked.

“Around ten o’clock, perhaps ten thirty.”

“And what time did you find the body?”

“Some time after two. It’s quite deep into the forest, as you can see.”

“Yes.”

“Aye, how much bloody further?” Matty asked, struggling with his lights and sample kit.

“Gimme something,” I said, taking one of his bags.

“Quite a bit yet,” De Sloot said cheerfully.

The trees were even more tightly packed here and it was so dark that we’d have been hard pressed to find our way without
the flashlights.

The incline increased.

I wondered how high we were up now.

A thousand feet? Twelve hundred?

I was glad that I was in plain clothes today. The polyester cop uniforms were murder in any kind of extreme temperature. I took off my jacket and draped it over my shoulder.

We stopped for a breather and De Sloot offered us water from his canteen. We took a drink, thanked him, soldiered on. On, through the dark, lifeless carpet of rotting pine needles before De Sloot finally called a halt. “Here,” he said, pointing to a snow-filled hollow in the lee of a particularly massive tree.

“Where?” I asked.

I couldn’t see anything.

“Near that grey rock,” De Sloot said.

I shone my flashlight and then I saw her.

She was fully clothed, hanging under the limb of an oak tree. She had set up the noose, put her head in it, stepped off a tree stump and then regretted it.

Almost every person who hanged themselves did it wrong.

The noose is supposed to break your neck not choke you to death.

Lucy had tried desperately to claw through the rope, had even managed to get a finger between the rope and her throat. It hadn’t done any good.

She was blue. Her left eye was bulging out of its socket, her right eyeball had popped onto her cheek.

Apart from that and the lifeless way the breeze played with her brown hair she did not look dead. The birds hadn’t found her yet.

She was early twenties, five two or three, pale and once, not too long ago, she had been beautiful.

“She left her driver’s licence on the tree stump over there,” De Sloot said.

“Any note?” Crabbie asked.

“No.”

In a situation like this what saves you is the routine. There is something about process and procedure that distances you from the reality. We were professionals with a job to do. That’s also why you’re supposed to look under your car every morning – it isn’t just the possibility of finding a bomb, it’s the heightened sense of awareness that that routine is supposed to give you for the rest of the day.

Process, procedure and professionalism.

“Everybody stay here. Matty, get your camera and start snapping. Mr De Sloot, have you moved anything at all?”

“No,” De Sloot said. “I read the driver’s licence and then I went back home and called the police. I kept the dogs away.”

We set up the battery-powered spotlights. I spread the team out and we combed the immediate area for footprints, forensic proofs or anything unusual.

Nothing.

Matty took the pictures and I made sure that his camera strategies were formal and correct.

The body was clean and there was no sign of anyone else having been here.

I looked at Matty. “Are you happy with the protocols? Shall we close the circle?”

“Aye. We’ve plenty of coverage. At least three rolls of film on just the wide shots.”

“Good. Keep snapping and damn the torpedoes,” I said.

I let Matty finish his photography.

“Better not fingerprint her just yet, or we’ll have to deal with Cathcart,” I said.

“Do you know the woman?” De Sloot asked.

“Lucy Moore, nee O’Neill. Missing since last Christmas,” I said.

“Until now,” McCrabban muttered.

“Until now,” I agreed.

We stood there in the dark understory. It began to get very cold.

“I think we’re done here, boss,” Matty said.

“Cut her down, have them take her to the patho,” I said.

“Have who take her? You’ll never get an undertaker to come out here,” McCrabban said.

“We’ll bloody do it then!” I said.

We cut the body down, Matty took a hair sample and we carried her back to the Land Rover.

Thank God I wasn’t in the back with her.

We drove to Carrick Hospital and left the body for Laura but the nurse told us that it would take a while because Dr Cathcart had finally been called away to Belfast to help autopsy with the burn victims from The Peacock Room.

When we returned to the barracks it was early evening and Brennan was waiting for me at my desk.

“Was it her?” he asked.

“It was,” I said. “She looked like her picture on the driver’s licence anyway. The patho will tell us for certain when she gets a chance.”

“Suicide?”

“Seems like it.”

Brennan looked cosmically sad. “I think I know why she may have topped herself.”

“Why?”

“Her ex-husband joined the Maze hunger strike on Monday.”

“He goes on hunger strike and she’s all guilty about divorcing him and she hangs herself?”

“Must be.”

“It’s possible,” I said and rubbed my chin dubiously.

“Hunger striker’s ex-wife tops herself! Oh my God, the media are gonna love this one too, aren’t they?” Brennan said.

“We can do the old ‘no details released because we are
respecting the wishes of the family’ routine.”

“Aye and speaking of that, I suppose we better go and tell the family. Her poor ma,” Brennan said.

I knew what he was angling at but there was no friggin way I was going with him. “Yes, I suppose
you
should go, sir. It was your case after all and you know how busy I am,” I said.

He sighed again.

“I’d appreciate it if you looked at the case file to see if there was anything that I missed,” he said as he departed.

“Not a problem, sir.”

I went to the CID filing cabinet and dug out the binder on Lucy Moore’s disappearance and carried it down to The Oak. My stomach was grumbling but someone had blown up their chef’s bus and he couldn’t get in. I ordered a Bushmills and a pint of the black and a bowl of Irish.

I opened the file. Thin. Lucy had told her mother that she was going to go to Barn Halt in Carrickfergus to catch the 11.58 a.m. train to Belfast on Christmas Eve 1980. Her mother had not been planning to go with her but after Lucy left the house she had changed her mind and got a lift to Downshire Halt (the stop before) so she could meet her daughter on the train. At 11.54 she had gotten on the train at Downshire Halt. It was a four-minute ride to Barn Halt.

A man called Cyril Peters had been driving over the Horseshoe Railway Bridge at 11.56 a.m. He had seen a woman exactly matching Lucy’s description waiting for the train at Barn Halt.

Then …

Zero.

The train came on time but Lucy had not got on.

Her mother had looked out the train window to see if she was at the halt. She not seen Lucy and then she had walked the length of the train searching for her. There were only three carriages and it didn’t take long to ascertain that she was not on board. No one had seen her. The driver hadn’t remembered if
there were was anyone waiting on the platform and the passengers who had got off hadn’t remembered seeing her either.

Between 11.56 and 11.58 she had disappeared.

Lucy had said “I might stay over with some friends in Belfast, but I’ll be back on Christmas morning.”

All the friends were called. Lucy wasn’t there.

There had been no ransom demand, no confirmed sightings, no physical evidence at Barn Halt or anywhere else.

Absolutely nothing for ten days until the first of the postcards had arrived with a Cork postmark on it. It was in Lucy’s handwriting and explained that she “wanted to go find myself”. She begged her parents not to send anyone to look for her and she promised she would keep in touch with them.

She
had
kept in touch, sending a simple letter or plain postcard every fortnight. Brennan had kept a photocopy of several of these postcards. Some of them referred to contemporary events but none of them revealed her whereabouts, what she was doing or who she was living with. Somewhere down South from the stamps.

The postcards closed the case for the RUC because Lucy was twenty-two and therefore an adult. If she wanted to run away to parts unknown that was her business.

I read the psych. assessment, the bio and the case summary. She’d been an easy-going, fairly happy girl in her first year of an English degree at QUB when she’d met Seamus Moore. They’d got married quickly (obviously knocked up), she’d had a miscarriage and he’d almost immediately gotten arrested for weapons possession and been sent up for four years in the Kesh.

He’d joined the IRA wing as a fairly low-level prisoner.

She’d gone to see him once a week until she had bumped into Seamus’s mistress, one Margaret Tanner and there had been a blazing round right there in the visitors’ hall. Hair pulling, screaming – the prison officers must have loved it.

Divorce proceedings had been initiated.

After the divorce Lucy had moved back in with her parents.