The Lost (11 page)
‘I know.’ Paula waited.
Saoirse sighed deeply. ‘I knew you were back. I saw Pat in Tile World and she told me.’
‘There was this job. And Dad broke his leg again.’
‘Yeah, Pat said. He’s OK?’
Paula shrugged. ‘He asks after you.’
‘Hmm.’ Saoirse stared at the yellow bio-waste bin. ‘Mammy’s always asking after you, too.’
‘Well.’ Paula shifted on her feet in their flat leather boots. ‘I better get to the station. Listen – I hope . . . well.’ It was all there between them, the twelve years Paula had been gone, the silence, the husband she’d never even met. ‘I hope we can catch up sometime.’
The doctor stood
stiffly, not looking up, and after a moment Paula went out, closing the heavy door behind her.
The first person Paula
saw as she pulled into the new station car park was Aidan O’Hara, lounging by the entrance, cigarette cupped against the chill breeze. The collar of his wool coat was pulled up against the wind, fine beads of rain caught in the fabric. Gesturing at her car, he called out, ‘If you go back and try again, you might actually clip that Beemer. You’re so close!’
She ignored him, squeezing out of the admittedly very small gap she’d left between her car and Guy’s BMW. ‘Must be a big week for you,’ she said, smoothing down her hair. ‘An actual murder to fit in between the Ballyterrin Farm Show and the classic car ads. You won’t know what to do with yourself.’
He ground his cigarette butt under his vintage Adidas. ‘You’ll see, next week’s edition is a cracker. Never mind your
Times
or your
Guardian
. The
Ballyterrin Gazette
’ll be breaking the story.’
‘Ah, move, would you?’ She pushed past him and through the glass doors of the big modern building. She could already see the thick black of cables, the incandescent flash of TV lights, and the desk set up for the press conference.
Aidan called after her, ‘You saw Saoirse then?’
She stopped short. Bloody Ballyterrin. She’d forgotten news could move four times round the town in the time it took to draw breath. ‘That’s your so-called investigative skill there, is it?’
‘Nah, Saoirse’s after texting me.’ He smiled, tucking a pen behind his ear. ‘I go round for a drink the odd time, with her and Dave. He’s a good lad.’
Not that Paula
would know. ‘Piss off, Aidan,’ she said pleasantly, letting the door swing in his face. They’d all been friends, hadn’t they, so Saoirse had every right to still see Aidan, even after what he’d done. Did she? Probably.
Guy caught her eye as she went into the crowded room, and gave her a grim little nod. He looked steady and confident at last, whereas beside him at the desk Bob Hamilton was clearly queasy with nerves.
She heard footsteps behind her and there was Avril Wright, neatly turned out in grey trousers and a white blouse. Paula felt scruffy as hell with her jeans and hungover eyes. Avril was placing papers on the fold-up seats that had been placed through the room; already reporters had gathered in protective knots about them.
Paula indicated to Hamilton. ‘He looks like he’s ready to puke.’
The girl swung her straightened bob. ‘Oh aye, he always gets nervous. It’s why he never went into the Church in the end.’ Seeing Paula’s blank face, she said, ‘You never knew he was my uncle? He’s my mammy’s brother.’
‘Oh.’ That explained a lot.
‘He didn’t choose me for this,’ said Avril quickly. ‘I mean, I had the interview and all. Gerard – DC Monaghan, I mean – he’s always giving me stick for it, but if anything, Uncle Bob’ll go harder on me ’cos I’m his niece.’
Paula believed her. ‘So what do your parents do, then?’ She’d already guessed.
The girl licked her finger and sorted through the remaining flyers. ‘Daddy’s a minister. Mammy stays at home.’
‘I see.’
‘Your dad, he worked with the force?’ Avril asked.
‘Yep. He’s retired now, since decommissioning.’
Avril nodded, and
Paula saw she didn’t want to ask any further. There were lots of reasons police officers had been put out when the PSNI came into being. You didn’t want to enquire too deeply.
‘Did you see that fella outside, smoking away?’ the girl went on. ‘Isn’t he the one whose dad was the Editor?’
‘Aidan? Yeah, that’s him. He’s taken over the paper himself now.’
‘He gave me an awful cheeky look. I hear he’s a terrible drinker, too.’ Her tone was one of thundering disapproval.
Paula looked out of the plate-glass window, to where Aidan could still be seen pacing, collar up. He seemed to be on the phone – who to, she wondered. ‘It fu—It messed him up, what happened to his dad.’
Avril was nodding. ‘That’s right. He was shot, wasn’t he?’
‘Aidan was there, you see. He saw – he was only seven.’ Paula had only been six herself, at primary school, but she remembered it well. The phone call coming in when she’d just gone to bed, and young as she was already knowing that phone calls meant something bad, someone else dead. From downstairs she’d heard her father answer it (‘
Ballyterrin 94362
’) and then there was a long silence, during which she’d held her breath, upstairs beneath her My Little Pony duvet. And then her father had made a noise she’d never heard before. ‘
Ah Jesus God, not John. Not John, for Christ’s sake
.’ And she’d known, even at six she’d known that nothing would ever be the same after that.
‘Paula,’ said Avril quietly, as movement up ahead suggested they were about to get started. ‘I wanted to say to you, I remember when your mum – well, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. It must have been awful.’
Paula stared fixedly at the front. Of course everyone knew. Who’d she been kidding? The whole town knew, with the possible exception of Guy Brooking. ‘You remember that? You must have been at primary school.’
‘Yeah,
I’d’ve been seven or so,’ said Avril, and then she pointed to the front of the room. ‘Look, they’re starting.’
Guy faced the cameras solemnly, not a hint of nerves. Paula saw again how the role suited him, made him more assured. This wasn’t the same broken man who’d sat on her bed the night before.
Light exploded round his head. ‘Welcome, everyone. I’m Detective Inspector Guy Brooking of the Metropolitan Police, on secondment here in Ballyterrin, and today I’m filling in for my colleague DCI Helen Corry, who can’t be with us.’ At that, murmurs went up from the journalists, and Paula wondered again what the story was with this Corry. A woman DCI was unusual enough, and for her to be AWOL on a major investigation was very strange indeed.
‘Today we are launching a murder inquiry,’ Guy continued. ‘Last night, the body of Catherine Carr, aged fifteen, was recovered from a stretch of the Ballyterrin Canal. I can reveal that Cathy’s body was wrapped in tarpaulin. First indications are that she had been there for up to a week.’ He looked round. His hands were folded on the desk, his expression serious. ‘The PSNI and the Missing Persons’ Review Unit are making this case our highest priority. A child has lost her life, and a local family have been robbed of their young daughter.’
‘Not bad, is he?’ whispered a voice by Paula’s ear.
‘Just can’t stay away?’
‘Not when there’s your man to go after.’ Hands in his pockets, Aidan nodded to Guy.
‘What’s your problem with him?’
‘I don’t like the Brits sending their washed-up coppers over here, that’s all. We deserve better – so do those missing people.’ He looked at her steadily, and she waited, but thank God he didn’t say he thought she would have understood that. Of course she bloody understood.
She spoke from
the side of her mouth, as up ahead Guy was praising the PSNI officers who’d conducted such an effective investigation. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. I looked him up, he’s top brass.’
‘Maybe he was before.’ Aidan leaned forward to listen to Guy.
‘Before what?’
He didn’t reply, just gave an annoying smile and stepped forward with his hand raised. ‘Excuse me, Inspector Brooking?’
Guy stopped mid-flow. ‘We’ll take questions after, if that’s all right.’
‘Just a wee one.’ Aidan didn’t even have a notebook, and was sucking on his pen like a cigarette. ‘You really call this an effective investigation, when the girl’s just turned up dead?’
Guy frowned, then forcibly cleared his brow. ‘Sadly, it appears Cathy was killed before the start of our search for her. This is now a murder investigation, so from next week it will be handled by the Serious Crime Branch of the PSNI.’ His tone said that was that, but Aidan waved his hand again.
‘So what’s the point of this Missing Persons’ Unit, if you can’t find people? Majella Ward, for example?’
All the reporters were watching now. Guy’s face was a professional mask. ‘I can’t comment on another investigation, but we’re working closely with Majella’s community leaders, and police North and South of the border.’
‘So just ’cos she’s a traveller, it’s not important.’
Guy sat back. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear a question – Mr O’Hara, is it? So as I was saying—’
‘Can you
comment on reports that Cathy was stabbed?’ Perhaps taking a cue from Aidan, a woman from a national paper had called out the question.
‘Are the two cases linked at all?’
‘Are you increasing efforts to find Majella?’
Aidan shouted over the din. ‘Why’s this unit even involved? Is there a link to an old case, is that it?’
Guy and Bob Hamilton exchanged looks, and Bob cleared his throat. ‘There is no evidence at the current time that Majella Ward’s case is linked in any way, though we’re continuing to look for her, with the cooperation of the
Garda Sío-ch-ána
. We can also reveal that Catherine’s cause of death was indeed assault with a sharp object, likely with a long, slim type of blade.’
‘However . . .’ Guy looked round at the room, and Paula saw the reporters held rapt. He was good at this. He had them. ‘I can now reveal that the unit is involved because we’re investigating a possible link to several older missing persons’ cases, which we may now reopen.’
He was drowned out by a crescendo of voices in the room.
Paula looked at Aidan, who’d been thoroughly upstaged, but he was smiling, tapping the pen off his teeth. ‘Aye, he’s got the right idea. Give them a wee show.’ Sure enough, the reporters were feverishly snapping and scribbling, desperately trying to work out which cases Guy meant. The story would make the front cover of every paper in the country the next day. In Ireland, that was. The British press wouldn’t care enough to put a dead Irish girl on the cover, even when she’d been murdered.
Paula glared at Aidan. ‘You should head off now. Those farm shows aren’t going to cover themselves, you know.’
He laughed, the deep dry chuckle she remembered. ‘Catch you later, Maguire. Look out for Monday’s paper.’
‘I’ll use
it to line the bin,’ she muttered, deliberately not watching him go. But despite herself she could feel it when he’d left the building, as if an itch had stopped in the middle of her shoulders.
After the press conference, Guy shot out to his car, phone clamped to his ear. Had she expected anything else? Of course he’d pretend last night hadn’t happened. She could hardly complain, since that was her own favoured approach to the morning after. But she was unlocking the Focus when he pulled up beside her, looking round furtively.
‘Paula. I’m sorry I’m not – well, I’m just worried about this scrutiny we’re under. I’d hate to damage your career. Or even if there’s a conviction, affect the investigation – you know.’
She nodded, with her back to him.
‘Please believe me, last night meant a great deal. Maybe after—’
‘It’s fine.’ She refused to look at him. ‘Let’s get on with the case. That needs to be our focus now.’
‘I’m still sorry. It was very unprofessional.’
She wished he would stop saying that. If anything, it just made the idea more appealing. She watched him drive off, hands rigid on the wheel, and went home herself through the evening traffic.
Saturday night was early to bed again, after an evening of PJ, endless cups of tea, and a film with sex scenes that made her father mutter, scandalised, and fiddle with the TV guide. In spite of how tired she was, she couldn’t sleep. It was too cold in the room, her nose frozen above the covers. The photo stared down at her in the dark, the red-haired woman, until eventually she got up and turned it to the wall. She couldn’t think about that now on top of everything. Finally she fell asleep with a head full of knives, and the stockinged feet of a dead
girl.
Her shoes. Where were her shoes?
But the thought slid from her head as she fell asleep, slippery as the mud in the canal.
‘Paula! Paula,
up you get, it’s time for Mass.’
Christ! She sat bolt upright, stricken with terror that she was fifteen again. But no, it was worse, she was thirty and just living the life of a fifteen year old. In a single bed, wearing flannel pyjamas, and her dad knocking on the door to get her up.
She shuffled downstairs in her old dressing-gown, which had teddies on the pocket. ‘Mass is at ten now?’
‘Aye, I like to go to the early one these days. It’s easier to get a seat, the eleven’s always bunged.’ Any church in England would love to have this problem; here, everyone just moaned about parking and finding a good seat.
PJ was getting stuck into a plate of bacon, eggs, black pudding, white pudding, and soda farl, while Paula winced and nibbled at toast. She was still queasy from Friday night’s booze, and all the rest. She coloured at the memory. Perhaps going to Mass would make her feel less awful for sleeping with her boss, her
married
boss, in the first week on the job.
She’d have thought God would allow PJ a few weeks off Mass, since he could barely walk, but as her dad hobbled up the aisle, she saw him smile and nod at neighbours, and she was glad she’d gone.
‘And there’s Paula,’ people greeted her, no doubt storing away how she looked and what she did in order to tell their mammies or husbands or second cousins once removed.
