The Lost (3 page)

It was raining, of course. It was only October, but it was Northern Ireland, and the chill mist crept up to the car and under her skin, making her shiver. She finally got on the motorway, luckily quiet at this time of day, and tuned the radio to local news. Voices filled the car, rich and heavy like clods of soil. That made her shiver too, the memories returning like ghosts.

She’d never wanted to come back again, but here she was following signs to the border, to Ballyterrin. Twenty miles. The radio voices were arguing about the new policing Bill, devolving final powers to the Police Service of Northern Ireland – a different name to paint over the murky past. Politics saturated daily life here, just like the insidious rain. Acned teens on the side of the road, they’d be able to tell you the names of all the local politicians and exactly what was wrong with most of them. Old men in pubs, mums pushing buggies, schoolgirls. Everyone watched the news here, fierce and avid, ready to pounce.

Here already were the
hills around her home town, the rolling mountains veiled in rain. It must be a beautiful place, people always said – people who didn’t have to live there – and she always shrugged. Scenery was one thing, twisted hatred another. And the past was still everywhere, creaking with spectral life.

As Paula inched into the town, the traffic heavy as always, she saw her first sectarian graffiti.
Sinn Féin
, it said, in bold green.
We deliver
. Underneath someone had scrawled
Pizza
. Funny, unless of course they got their knees shattered for it. As she watched, a council employee was painting it out with thick white emulsion, slapping on layer after layer until the green was wiped out.

She’d never wanted to come back again. But somehow, here she was.

‘Jesus, Mary, and St Joseph. Is that wee Paula Maguire I see before me?’

‘It is. Hello, Pat.’ Not so wee now, Paula was nearly a foot taller than the small woman hugging her to an acrylic-covered bosom.

Paula manoeuvred her bags into the front door of her childhood home. It was exactly the same dark poky space, walls lined with family pictures, going as far as 1995 and then stopping dead. The same smell of Pledge and cooking. By rights the family should have moved far and often, designated legitimate targets by the local IRA, but they’d stayed – just in case
she
came back and they weren’t there. It was common, in families with one member permanently lost. The hope that kept you rooted to the spot.

‘Now let me see
you.’ Pat shepherded her into the also poky but slightly less dark kitchen, its brown seventies fittings unchanged. It overlooked a small passage that ran from the front of the semi to the strip of lawn at the back. That was where Paula had seen the man, all those years ago. On what had been the last day, though of course she didn’t know it – you never do. If she closed her eyes she would find the layout of this house etched there: downstairs the kitchen and front room, upstairs the bathroom and two small bedrooms. And that was even without the police diagrams they’d made her study over and over.

Pat was nodding at her. ‘A wee bit peaked from that dirty city, but you’re looking well, pet. That’s a lovely jersey you’ve on you, is it M&S?’ She stroked the soft cashmere.

‘Eh – no.’ Paula wasn’t about to tell Pat how much the jumper had cost. ‘How is he?’

‘Like you’d expect. Not used to taking it easy. On you go, I’ve a pot of tea waiting.’

She was suddenly nervous. It was far too long since she’d seen him, a few strained visits to London and one failed holiday together in the Lake District. Why hadn’t she seen him more? He was stretched out on the sofa in the parlour, which still had its plastic head-cover on from when it had been bought in 1980. The year of Paula’s birth. A cabinet was lined with china kittens, gifts from Irish seaside towns, cut-glass statues of the Virgin Mary.

‘Hello, Daddy. Are you well?’

‘I’ve been better.’ The man on the sofa was approaching sixty, still tough and rangy but for the cruel metal cage pinning one strong leg.

‘God, it’s bad,
isn’t it.’ She winced at the metal cutting into her father’s flesh.

Pat hovered in the doorway. ‘They said he twisted the bone right round like a corkscrew. Three months he’s to wear it.’

‘Ow. You’ll be off your feet a while, then.’

‘I’ll be bored out of my mind, Paula.’ His arms were folded, eyes fixed on the muted TV, which played the early evening news. A boring affair now the almost-daily shootings, bombings, and kneecappings were in the past. Mostly.

‘How did you even break it this time, Daddy? You never said.’

‘It was my fault,’ said Pat.

‘It was not indeed, Patricia. It was me fell like an eejit. Patricia wanted some old boxes out of the attic –’

‘– for my project, Paula – you know, the town history.’

‘So I go up the ladder – and doesn’t it break clean under me. Came down on me leg like a ton of bricks.’

Pat clucked. ‘You were never right anyway since that first accident, PJ.’

Paula remembered the circumstances, the way her father had first hurt his leg, and pushed it away. She couldn’t think about that now.

PJ made a grumpy noise. ‘Well, I’m still in the land of the living, thank God. I’ll just have to sit and wait.’

‘And here’s Paula back to mind you! It was lucky you got that job too, pet. Sure didn’t it all work out for the best.’

‘Lucky’ wasn’t the word Paula would use. She had made her mind up to say no to the job – though she took the file out every night for two weeks to look at it – when the call came in.
If you can come now, we need you. Something’s happened.
And something had. Big enough to draw her back, send her to Gatwick for a budget flight, on the way home to the town she’d promised never to set foot in again. The excuse was she’d be looking after her father – if, in fact, anyone could look after the hulking ex-policeman, who was ‘PJ’ because in the old Royal Ulster Constabulary it hadn’t been wise to advertise your Catholic name of Patrick Joseph.

Pat was still
fishing. ‘How long are you back for, pet?’

‘Not long,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s a consultancy gig, is all. I’m just over for this one case.’

Pat grew sombre. ‘Those poor wee girls. Please God you can help find them.’

Paula said nothing. She hoped so too.

‘I’ll be on my way, so.’ Pat was fussing round for her sensible navy coat.

‘Ah, stay,’ said Paula and her father, almost in unison.

‘I’ll leave you to catch up, and I’ve to make Aidan’s tea. He’s coming round to programme the Sky yoke for me.’

‘Oh. How is Aidan?’ Paula felt she had to ask, though really she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

‘Ah, he’s grand. You know he got the Editor’s job last year? Well, he knocked the drinking on the head after that.’ Did Paula imagine it, or had her father made a ‘humph’ noise? ‘I’ll tell him you were asking for him, pet. Bye now.’

Great. Now Aidan O’Hara would think she gave a damn what he was up to. Paula had known Pat O’Hara all her life, since the day she was born, in fact, and wouldn’t hurt her for the world. Pat and John O’Hara had been her parents’ friends, their only friends really, and when they came round for dinner they sometimes brought their annoying son, Aidan, who pulled the heads off Paula’s My Little Ponies. But that was a long time ago, before what happened to John O’Hara and – all the rest. Now it was just Pat and PJ left, living in the same town, popping in on each other, and Aidan had grown up even more annoying than he’d been at seven, in a variety of new, adult ways.

When Pat left, the house
seemed to sag, silent and damp. PJ stared at the TV.

Paula cleared her throat. ‘Will I pour the tea, Daddy?’

‘Aye, good girl. I’ll take a wee bun too, if Pat left some.’

Tea. Would Ireland have ground to a halt without it?

As Paula went to bed that night at the shocking time of 9.30 p.m. – she’d completely run out of things to say – she saw the leg-breaking boxes lined up along the narrow landing, old and mildewed. She knew what was in them. They hadn’t been opened in nearly eighteen years.

‘You’re all right up there?’ Her father, who’d refused all help to get up the stairs, called to her. ‘You want a hot-water bottle?’

It was freezing – PJ didn’t believe in central heating until at least November – but she said, ‘I’ll get it myself, if I’m cold. You rest yourself.’ Back in her single bed. Back with her chipboard desk, her Anglepoise lamp. The walls still marked in Blu-Tack from where she’d had her posters – Take That, first time around. Early Boyzone. Then later Nirvana, Pearl Jam.

Paula rooted in the lower drawer of the desk – set squares, dried-out pens – and it was still there. The framed picture showed a teenage Paula, sulky in Adidas sports clothes, with the same red-haired woman from the photo in her London kitchen. It was the last picture ever taken of her. At least, as far as they knew.

Every time Paula came home she felt it again. It was stupid. Of course
she
wouldn’t be here – hadn’t been here in years. But somehow it was always a loss just the same.

Chapter Three

‘. . . co-ordinate our
strategy with other cross-border units, and work together to improve outcomes on missing persons . . .’

Voices were already coming from the conference room as Paula rounded the corner, feet tripping on the thin grey carpet. Bollocks, they’d started without her. First day and late already.

‘God! Sorry!’ She burst into the room in the small building that housed her new team. ‘That Market Street traffic’s got a whole lot worse, hasn’t it?’

Blank faces round the table. Four, five people. ‘Dr Maguire?’ The man standing at the whiteboard was tall, fair-haired, a laser-pointer in one hand. ‘Please, join us. I’m Guy Brooking. I’m with the Met Police, but acting as consultant here for a year.’

Her new boss; the Englishman abroad. Paula sank into a plastic chair as the faces stared at her. ‘Sorry to be late. It’s just . . . the traffic’s worse than I’m used to.’

Guy Brooking spoke smoothly. Paula stared at her bitten nails, shy of all the new people.

‘Now you’re here, Dr Maguire, I can introduce the team.’ He gestured fluidly round him. ‘The Missing Persons’ Review Unit was set up several months ago – you’ve read the files?’ She nodded, hoping there wouldn’t be questions. ‘Then you’ll know it came from a report into Ireland’s very high number of unsolved missing persons’ cases, and a recommendation from both sides of the border for an all-island response to the situation.’ Around her Paula felt a subtle slump in the other team members; clearly they’d heard this many times before. ‘Our role is to examine the old unsolveds, and where applicable advise the relevant local police force on reinvestigation, with the aim of successfully reducing our statistics for outstanding cases.’ The man talked like an official report. He went round the table with his laser-pointer, indicating an older man stuffed uncomfortably into a nylon suit. ‘This is my deputy, Sergeant Robert Hamilton. He’ll be taking over the operation once we’re up and running.’ The sergeant had the air of a man who’d worn uniform all his life; Paula recognised it from her father.

‘Avril Wright’s our
intelligence analyst, shared with the regular Police Service of Northern Ireland.’ Guy pointed to a scrubbed-looking girl. ‘She’ll be helping us out with research and data management. DC Gerard Monaghan is attached to the local PSNI station.’ Young, scowly, clearly Catholic from his name. ‘And joining us from the
Garda Síochána
, Fiacra Quinn. I’m sorry, is that right this time?
Fay-kra
? Fiacra’s our liaison on all cases south of the border.’ Also young, pink-faced, the only one to risk a small smile at her.

Paula quickly worked it out from the names, an unfortunate but unavoidable habit ingrained in you when you grew up along the border. They were being led by an Englishman and a Northern Ireland Protestant, probably ex-RUC. The rest consisted of a female civilian analyst (Protestant) and a male detective (Catholic), plus one from south of the border. She wondered how long it had taken someone to come up with that balance of religion, nationality, and gender. The two young men wore shirts and ties, Fiacra’s askew, un-ironed, Gerard’s in razor-cut creases over powerful arms. Avril Wright was in a neat skirt and lilac cardigan. Paula wished she’d bothered to iron her own outfit of white shirt and black trousers, what she normally wore to the office.

‘And everyone, this
is Paula Maguire – do you prefer Doctor?’

‘Er . . . Paula is fine,’ she said, floored.

‘Paula is a chartered forensic psychologist. She’s made quite a name for herself in a London Missing Persons’ Unit, and she’ll be working alongside us on strategy and analysis for our current caseload.’

‘Paperwork, you mean.’ This muttered from Gerard Monaghan. Paula gave him a look; he’d be trouble, this one.

‘Yes, but also some direct interviews and assessment. We’ve specifically brought Paula in for her expertise on missing teenagers – you may have seen the coverage of the Kaylee Morris case in London a few weeks ago. Paula’s insight was directly responsible for recovering that girl alive.’

Paula smiled nervously round the table, wondering if she should say that Kaylee’s life probably hadn’t been in danger. Not then, anyway. She said nothing.

‘So.’ Guy Brooking clicked his pointer and the white wall glowed with colour. ‘I’ll cut to the chase. Paula, as you know, we’ve brought you in because we’ve got an unprecedented situation. Given the gravity, this unit has been asked to help with a current investigation.’ The face of a girl appeared; smiling, straightened dark hair, a cluster of spots on one cheek. ‘Cathy Carr’s been missing for a week now.’ He clicked again. Another girl, a different school uniform, her chestnut hair longer and wilder. ‘Majella Ward’s been missing for three.’

‘Wait,’ Paula interrupted. ‘That wasn’t in the files. She’s been gone
three weeks
and you’re calling me in now?’

Guy shuffled his notes. ‘She was part of the travelling community, I understand. Majella’s school said her attendance had always been poor, and the family failed to report her missing for some time.’ He saw Paula’s face. ‘Perhaps a ball was dropped – but we’re on the case now. There’s been a terrific response from the town. We’ve had volunteers out every day, searching the fields and woods, and the local diving club even offered to drag the bay for us.’