The Lost (17 page)

A dark-haired man, running to bald. She recognised him vaguely as one of Cathy’s uncles, the one who’d been at the station when Cathy was found.

Guy wound down the window. ‘Is this OK to park—’

‘Yous aren’t wanted here.’

Guy blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘We don’t want no peelers here. Keeping her wee body in that morgue!’

‘We just want to pay our respects,’ said Paula, inching away from the open window. She wished Guy would put it up again.

‘Aye, you can shove your respects. Never shifted your arses to find her in time, did you. The bloody next-door neighbour you’ve arrested, and you never even checked the whole time she was missing! You could have got her back safe! Wee Cathy!’

A woman in
straining black was pulling him off –
leave it, Jarlath, would you
– but not before a gob of spit landed on the window. Hastily, Guy slid it up and they watched the man be dragged away in the rain, shouting words they couldn’t hear.

‘Well,’ he said heavily. ‘Perhaps we should just have sent a wreath.’

She tried to explain. ‘I’m sorry – people here still don’t trust us. And the Carrs – they’re an old IRA family, going way back. They’ve no love for the police.’

‘It’s fine. I’ve seen it before. Gangs don’t like us much either.’ But as they drove away she felt he was hurt all the same – another rejection from the people of Ballyterrin. ‘Shall I take you back to the station?’

‘Er – no. If you could leave me back to my car, I’ve something to follow up on.’

He flashed her a curious look, but didn’t enquire further, as they drove through the lunchtime traffic and the rain continued to fall, light and soaking.

Suicides were the worst. She had always thought it was the murders she couldn’t stand, the bereaved families, the horror, the wait, the child snatched off the street. But no, this was worse. The shock in the parents’ eyes. Not some monster who did this, but their own child. It wasn’t uncommon for parents to follow their children on in those circumstances. It wasn’t the kind of thing everyone could survive.

God, the rain
in this place! How could she have forgotten the everlasting, relentless, icy rain? It knifed down from a bruised sky, pooling in the gutters of the small semi Paula had come to, dripping thickly down the drainpipes and into the road. The family of Louise McCourt lived in a semidetached house in one of the villages near Ballyterrin. Paula had driven the car out on the long dual carriageway, past the scrappy dock area of the town, with its shipping containers and warehouses, rounding the muddy curve of the bay. She got there in twenty minutes and did some very bad parallel parking in the cul-de-sac. Taking deep breaths, she did up her trench-coat against the autumn chill. It was OK, wasn’t it? Guy had said she could look into the suicides. And where else to start but with the most recent?

Breathing hard, holding her bag over her head against the downpour, she went up the gravel path. Behind the house were the dark shapes of the hills, shrouded in mist. Not a large house. Lower middle-class, a garage on the side and a small pocket of lawn. She leaned on the chiming doorbell and waited. Nothing for a while, then a slow tread.

The door opened to a buzz of radio and the smell of stew. The woman wore a tracksuit and her face was lined. ‘Yeah?’

‘Mrs McCourt?’

She just inclined her head.

‘My name is Paula. I’m working with a new unit based in Ballyterrin – we’re looking into missing persons.’

The door hadn’t budged.

‘I’m investigating a possible link with St Bridget’s, so I wondered if I could talk to you about – well, about Louise.’

It was like a shutter coming down. The woman stepped forward a pace, eyeing Paula. ‘You didn’t pick her over enough, then?’

‘I’m sorry. I just—’

‘My daughter’s dead. You tell me what good it’ll do us to rake it all up.’ And when Paula grasped for words, the door slammed shut. She blinked at the pebbled glass. So. They didn’t want to talk about Louise.

‘Sorry about the wife.’ She turned; the garage door had swung open and a small bald man stood there, wiping a wrench on a cloth. He wore an oil-stained T-shirt and jerked his head into the dark cool of the garage. ‘Come on in. I’ll hear you out.’

Stephen McCourt, Louise’s
father, was restoring a very old Jaguar in his garage. Every space being littered in tools, oil, and rags, Paula perched against a workbench, paranoid about dirt seeping into her good trousers. The radio was on low, playing a tinny pop song.

‘Our Lou used to give me a hand out here. She was a handy wee mechanic. Never minded getting her hands dirty.’

Paula recalled the photo, the pretty smiling girl with coppery curls. ‘You were close?’

He just nodded, peering into the engine. What could you say?

‘Mr McCourt – I’m working on the murder of Cathy Carr.’

‘Terrible thing.’ He picked out some unidentifiable bit of metal and examined it. ‘Don’t know what’s worse. Knowing someone came and took her, or knowing she done it herself, like.’

Paula didn’t know either; she never had. She spoke carefully. ‘It wasn’t ruled a suicide, as I understand it.’

‘No. There was some doubt, they said – could’ve been an accident. But sure I don’t see how. The wife, it gives her comfort to think it was.’

‘At the time, was there any reason . . . was Louise unhappy? I know this must be hard.’

He scratched his ear with the screwdriver, leaving clumps of oil. ‘Our Lou, she was always a happy wee girl. Never any trouble. But then just before – she wasn’t smiling so much. Fighting with her mammy. And she was out all hours, whenever we’d let her. We’d to say no a few times, though I didn’t like to do it.’

‘Was she – do you know where she went?’

He frowned at the car. ‘Ah, sure how would you know. They do be up to all sorts, weans nowadays.’

‘Did she ever go to the church group?’ Paula risked.

‘The
Mission thing, you mean? Aye, all the weans go there now, I think. Her mammy didn’t mind that, but how’d you know if she was there or not?’

It was a good point, Paula conceded. ‘Did Louise keep a diary or anything?’

‘She’d hardly tell her ould da. You’d have to ask the wife, but she’s all cut up about it. Thinks that if we admit Lou done it herself, we’ll never see her again on account of the mortal sin. But I don’t know. What kind of God would He be, if a poor wee girl was punished for all eternity?’ He looked at Paula.

‘I don’t know, either.’

He glanced behind him, to where a large metal beam bisected the garage. ‘That’s where she was. She used the towrope for the car. Climbed up on the bonnet.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The newspaper reports had been muted, not mentioning the details. There was a good deal of evidence that too much detail could spark copycat suicides, especially in teens.

‘I mean, how could that be an accident? She knew not to mess about out here. Where do they learn these things, miss? Does it be off the TV or films or something like that?’ He shook his bald head. ‘It has me beat. Sometimes I think I’d ask her, “What was it, love? Did you not think you could tell me?” But I don’t know if we’re meant to know.’

Paula felt tears burn in her throat. ‘Sometimes, it’s the only way to make it stop. Whatever you’re feeling inside, you have to make it stop, so you try it. But you maybe don’t realise it’s forever.’

He didn’t ask her how she knew this, just took the screwdriver out from his belt. ‘Well, that’s about the lot of it. Any use to you?’

‘Oh yes. Thank you. And I’m so sorry, for intruding, and for – for Louise.’

He just
nodded. ‘You know what, miss? She’s out here with me still. Some people says, How can you go out there after what happened, but that’s the way of it. Don’t be thinking I’m away with the fairies or anything, and I couldn’t tell you how, but I know she’s still here.’

Paula felt a breeze steal through the damp garage, and looking at the strong beam, suppressed a shiver.

‘Where’ve you been?’

Coming back into the unit, flushed from the chill, Paula was stopped short by Guy’s irritated tones as he stood in the door of his office.

‘I’ve been making enquiries,’ she said. ‘You said I could.’

He ran his hands through his hair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. ‘OK. Sorry. I need you back on Cathy again. We’ll have to do some urgent assessments of the siblings.’

‘But what about the neighbour?’ Paula hung her coat over her chair. The atmosphere in the office had changed from the excitement of earlier. Gerard and Fiacra were round the big table labelling plastic bags. ‘How come everyone’s back?’

‘Alibi-ed,’ barked Gerard.

Guy winced. ‘It seems Mr Crawford really did have a friend coming to stay – or rather, an escort hired from a certain unnamed agency in Belfast.’

‘And did she—’

‘
He
.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

‘Yes. Look at these.’

She peered at the table and saw that the bags were full of DVDs, magazines, videos.
Sailor Love
.
Hot Studs
.
Young Dumb and Full of
. . . Oh. ‘Well, that explains why he looked so guilty.’

Guy shook his
head. ‘From the way he cried, you’d have thought he didn’t realise the alibi at least cleared him of murder. The “visitor”, who’s about twenty, said Ken came home at around half three, alone. He was waiting round the back of the house and saw no Cathy in the car.’

‘If we can trust him,’ said Gerard, savagely sticking a label on a bag. ‘I’m sure some of this stuff is illegal.’

‘Well, Corry got her constables to redo the door-to-doors, and the woman at number five said she saw Cathy getting out of Crawford’s car on the main road, like he claimed. Apparently Cathy was on her mobile, and she
may
– emphasis on may – have got into another car shortly after. Which was possibly, but not definitely, a silver colour. “One of those small wee cars”, and I quote. Thank God for busybodies, eh?’ Guy grimaced. ‘Though why she didn’t think to mention it before is beyond me. It seems no one wants to help the police unless we actually ask them a direct question.’

‘Poor man,’ said Paula, examining the buff torso of one cover model. ‘Probably kept this a secret all his life.’

Guy looked frustrated. ‘I’ve never met anyone who’d rather go down for murder than say they were gay.’

‘Welcome to Northern Ireland.’

He frowned – another thing he didn’t understand – and called, ‘Avril, can you sort out the evidence papers, please? It’ll all have to go back to him.’

Avril was pale when she came in from the kitchen, eyes firmly averted from the table.

‘You OK?’ asked Paula.

‘Yes.’ She licked her lips. ‘I just never knew there was stuff like this about.’

‘Get your preacher to explain,’ said Gerard, stretching out his arms. ‘I’m sure he knows all about it.’

Avril flushed but said nothing, giving a furious look at his departing back.

‘What was that about?’ asked Paula curiously.

‘Oh, he teases me because I’m, well . . . the youth pastor at church, he’s my friend.’

‘Your
boyfriend?’

She flushed harder. ‘We see each other sometimes. Alan’s very good at what he does, very moral.’

Paula was distracted by the sound of the glass doors swinging open and a muttering in the corridor. Bob Hamilton was talking in Guy’s ear. Both men were staring straight through the door – at her.

‘You want to explain what you’ve been up to?’ Guy spoke quietly, but she could hear the anger in his voice, a low vibration.

Paula leaned against the window of his office. She didn’t like this tag-teaming, Guy at the desk with his hands folded, Sideshow Bob rocking from one solid foot to the other. Hopping mad, in fact.

She bridled. ‘I told you. I’ve been doing some enquiries.’

‘That’s not all you’ve been at!’ Bob burst out. ‘Louise McCourt’s mother is after ringing up the main station, and she’s raging, so she is.’

‘I didn’t mean to upset—’

Guy said carefully, ‘The death was ruled an accident, I believe. I can’t see why you felt the need to intrude on a bereaved family. Look into the
files
, if you must, was what I meant.’

She opened her mouth and shut it again. How could she talk to him openly with Bob there, his chest swelled out like he was wearing his Orange sash? ‘I can’t determine her state of mind from looking at files. She was dead when they were opened – I need to know about when she was
alive
.’ Bob sucked in his breath, and she tried again. ‘Look. There’s this Mission, yes?’

‘And what’s that got to do with—’

She spoke
over Bob’s apoplectic tones. ‘Louise, Majella, and Cathy. Majella’s missing, Cathy and Louise are dead. Louise’s father thinks she killed herself. And all the girls went to the Mission.’

She saw that Guy was struggling to speak calmly. ‘So did a lot of children. What if I told you all three girls went to, I don’t know, McDonald’s? My point is, Ms Maguire, it’s probably just coincidence. I can’t allocate all my resources on the basis of coincidence.’

‘I know, but . . .’ She breathed out hard through her nose. ‘Sergeant Hamilton. Do we get many murders, suicides, or missing children in Ballyterrin?’

‘No. It’s a safe town,’ he said stiffly.

‘There you go. And this Mission’s been here how long – three months – and in that time we’ve had all these things? I just think it’s worth looking into.’

Guy wasn’t convinced. ‘We also have a million leads, a mysterious car to track down, a knife to find, Forensics to come back, and a whole town full of suspects to interview. Corry’s back from leave, and all of a sudden I have to let her run the show – except when it suits for us to do her grunt work. We’re up to our eyeballs interviewing the traveller camp – ten appeals already under the Human Rights Act! They won’t tell us a thing. And Cathy was nowhere near the Mission when she went missing, we know that. We’ve also checked with the staff there, as I said we would, and they have alibis. There was a full team meeting on Friday afternoon, and they were all at it.’

‘Oh, really?’ She frowned.

‘Really. I don’t just ignore major leads like that, but it’s a non-starter. So it would be very helpful, Paula, if you stuck to your brief. I brought you in to help us find these girls, and establish whether there’s any possible link to the cases twenty-five years ago. Cathy is dead – now I need you to help me find who killed her. So can you do your job? Please?’