The Silent Dead (Paula Maguire 3) (10 page)

She pulled up, wondering what the flat was like inside. If he had his vinyl, his guitars, his books, cups of half-drunk coffee everywhere. How could someone mean so much to you when you’d never even been to their home?

He took his seat belt off, hesitated. ‘It was good to see you tonight.’

‘Was it?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’

‘Aidan. I’m sorry. You said I wasn’t even sorry, back in January. Well I am. I didn’t plan any of this.’

‘I know. But it’s happening, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But maybe after . . .’ He waited, and she realised she didn’t know how to finish that sentence. She rubbed her eyes. ‘This case is a real killer, you know.’

‘Have you any leads?’ He held up his hands. ‘No no, just making chat, not digging for a story.’

‘Gerard thinks it’s the local Provos. Getting rid of the embarrassing country cousins so they can put on suits and go to Westminster. We keep hearing that Kenny and Flaherty used to be friends, but he denies it.’

Aidan rubbed his chin. ‘Aye, Maeve put that in her book. The publishers didn’t want her to, but she insisted.’

Paula found that, at the mention of the journalist’s name, she was clenching her fists, imagining him once again in Maeve’s bedroom, half-naked. ‘What’s happening with that?’ She tried to keep her voice neutral.

‘Ireland First were trying to sue her, last I heard. I guess not any more, now.’

‘That must have been tough for her.’

‘Not at all. She did it on purpose.’

‘On purpose?’

‘Aye. If there was a libel trial it would all be heard in court again, wouldn’t it? It was one way to get something for the families, she thought.’

Which was a bloody selfless thing to do. ‘Oh.’

‘Anyway, do I sense you don’t think Kenny actually did the kidnaps?’

‘There’s a lot that doesn’t fit. And . . .’ She couldn’t tell him about the notes in the mouths, the photos on the cave wall. ‘There are signs that link it to Mayday.’

‘Revenge?’

‘I think so. Some kind of . . . restitution, maybe. I went to the relatives’ group and there was definitely something up with them.’

Aidan rubbed his chin, and it almost killed her how much she missed this, asking him for advice. ‘You’d want to be careful. The families went through so much they’re near canonised round here. You wouldn’t want to accuse them of being mixed up in it.’

‘I’m not. I just . . .’

‘You just have doubts.’

She smiled weakly. ‘When do I not?’

‘OK.’ A silence welled between them, full of unsaid things. She gripped the steering wheel. She didn’t even know what she’d say if she could speak. After a moment, Aidan opened the door. ‘I’ll see you around then. Is Saoirse OK, do you think?’

‘You’d know as well as me.’

He thought a bit. ‘She’ll have to be, I suppose. There’s no remedy for it.’

‘No, but I don’t think it helps seeing me like this.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘Thought you said it was.’ She smiled at him weakly to show she was joking and he half-smiled, half-grimaced back.

‘Well, let’s not go there, as they say. Night, Maguire.’

His old name for her. It was something, anyway.

Extract from
The Blood Price: The Mayday
Bombing and its Aftermath
, by Maeve Cooley
(Tairise Press, 2011)

Interview with DCI Helen Corry, Ballyterrin PSNI

I was thirty-seven when the bomb went off. I don’t know why I feel that’s relevant, except that my life was cut in two by it. I can’t describe it any other way.

I’d been doing OK before that. My husband wasn’t failing me. Not yet. We had money. The recession hadn’t hit. My kids were seven and nine. Still sweet, energetic wee things who didn’t hate me for working all hours. I had an au pair. I’d been made a DS already, despite missing a year for each child.

I was leading the team on 1st May 2006. Crossanure is a small town outside Ballyterrin. I’m sure you know that, but perhaps your readers won’t. More of a village really. There was an Orange parade later on that day, so we were monitoring it from the control room, with officers on the street. I remember it was sunny, and I was in a bad mood at missing the bank holiday. My husband was annoyed and kept phoning to ask things like where were the barbecue tongs and did we have any suncream.

Sorry. You don’t need to know that.

The call came in at 11.03 a.m. I remember because I could see the red lights on the clock blinking on the control desk. It was a constable out on the beat, Raymond Sheeran.
Eh
 . . . 
He came on the line then said nothing.

Constable?
I said. I was pressing down the button on my phone, irritated.

I think something happened.

You’ll need to clarify, Constable. We’re a bit busy for ‘something’.

There’s a car,
he says. This lad was in his early twenties, no more. No bombs for a good twenty years, remember.
There’s a car in the middle of the High Street. It’s kind of parked weirdly.

Weirdly how?

Eh
 . . . 
sort of abandoned like. In the road
. I could hear the hesitation in his voice. He didn’t want to say it. We didn’t want to think it.
Have any threats been called in?

No, of course—
but then I saw a flicker of something in the dispatcher’s eye.
Hold on, Constable.
I glared at the dispatcher. She was sitting right beside me
. What? Tell me.

That’s right. Susan Markey was her name. Yes she was
 . . . 
let go after the incident. But I’m afraid that’s a confidential matter.

It came in earlier, ma’am,
she said hesitantly.
I wasn’t sure it was anything but
 . . . 
it’s in those papers.

You put it on my desk? Jesus, Susan. You always put any threats right into my hands.

It sounded liked kids.
She was trembling
. There wasn’t a code word. They didn’t say a car, anyway, they didn’t say anything really. They weren’t making any sense and half of it was in Irish. They said something about the High Street, about continuing the struggle
 . . .

Give me it.
I read the whole transcript of the call, gulping it with my eyes. She was right – it was mostly gibberish, but all the same my blood was running cold. I shouted,
Order an evacuation. Everyone out of that end of the street.
I diverted all my officers and ordered Constable Sheeran to lead the operation
.

Ten minutes later the bomb went off. Not in that car but in a bin outside the Methodist church. On the route of the Orange Order parade, but several hours early, and exactly where I’d been sending all those people. The car was just an unfortunate coincidence. Constable Sheeran died. I heard him screaming through his phone. He’d been assisting an elderly woman, who hadn’t a scratch on her. It happens that way in a bomb. It moves through like the hand of God, knocking down the young, leaving the old, taking the well, missing the sick. There is no order. Afterwards it was concluded that grouping everyone at that end of the street most likely led to the very high loss of life. We’d walked them to their deaths.

My supervisor shot himself a month after the inquest. That’s right. In the mouth, with his service rifle. Me, I got divorced. But I don’t blame myself. The only people to blame are those who made the bomb, who placed the bomb, who phoned in a vague and misleading warning. No one else should have been punished for it.

I think we’ll have to leave it there, if you’ll excuse me. Thank you.

Chapter Eleven

‘Nice place.’

‘As long you’re not a Protestant, a Catholic they don’t agree with, or English.’

‘We’re screwed then.’

The pub was exactly the kind of one Paula would normally have crossed the street to avoid. It was called the Starry Plough, and was infamous as the scene of the shooting of Derek ‘Funster’ McCourt, one of the town’s most notorious drug dealers. He’d been gunned down there in 1997 in a small misunderstanding over a missing consignment of ecstasy tablets. Paula was sitting opposite it in Guy’s BMW, and her mind was currently failing to take in the idea of Guy Brooking, all English vowels and handmade suits, going inside the pub’s wired-up windows and faded paintwork. ‘You really think this will be all right?’

‘They’ve agreed to see us.’

‘But – don’t they know you were with the Met?’

‘They agreed to speak to me, and they know I’m neither Catholic nor Protestant. I’m told a priest will mediate.’

‘You know what they used to do to the English over here?’

‘Paula. It was all years ago. I understand perfectly if you feel apprehensive – I did say you should perhaps stay—’

‘
I’ll
be fine! I’m Catholic.’

‘A Catholic working for the police.’

‘Hmph. OK. Let’s both go then.’

‘I suppose you won’t listen if I suggest it’s not the best place for you.’

‘Nope.’

‘And if I mention the baby, you’ll get cross?’

‘I’m very well aware of the baby, sir. It’s hard not to be when it’s sitting on my bladder.’

He almost smiled. ‘All right. Let’s take it nice and easy.’

She walked across the road with her belly held awkwardly in front of her, like a ship’s prow. He hovered at her elbow, not quite taking it. The place smelled like all Irish pubs, as if every stick of wood in the place had been marinated in Guinness for forty years. It was so dark it took a while for Paula’s eyes to adjust. There was one man behind the bar wiping glasses, a radio softly giving out Irish. There were two other men at a corner table, one in a dog collar. The other, she knew, was Jarlath Kenny, IRA commander of the area in the nineties – allegedly, of course – and now mayor of the town, possibly soon to be MP. He was dressed in a polo shirt and tracksuit bottoms rather than the Armani suits he was known for, and drinking water from a pint glass.

Guy approached, all suit and smile. ‘Father McCracken, is it? I’m DI Brooking. Pleased to put a face to a name.’

The priest hesitated, then shook his hand. ‘This is Mr Kenny.’

Paula held her breath for a second, but the ex-Army officer and ex-terrorist shook hands without incident.

Guy turned to her. ‘This is my colleague, Dr Maguire. She’s helping us build up a profile of the missing people.’

As was so often the case, the men’s eyes floated over her, taking in her relative youth, her bump, her messy civilian clothes, and passed on. Jarlath Kenny gave her a hard stare for a moment. ‘
Dia duit.
’ The Irish greeting was basically saying – are you Catholic?

‘
Dia is Mhuire duit
,’ she mumbled, hating herself. Yes, Catholic Maguire. After that they ignored her. Really, Paula didn’t mind being so dismissed. It allowed her to see things without being noticed. She and Guy sat on stools, which were too small for her bulk, so she held herself awkwardly. The walls were lined with Republican memorabilia.

‘Well, Inspector,’ said Jarlath Kenny, with control. ‘What can I help you with?’

‘It’s about this Mayday case, Mr Kenny. You may have seen that the five Mayday suspects – or sorry, the five who were rumoured to be involved – have gone missing, and two have now turned up dead.’

‘I have.’ He took a sip of water. The glass was smeary with fingerprints.

‘Mr Kenny, I understand you’re a very knowledgeable man. What we’d like to know is, have you heard anything that might suggest there’s a reprisal element to these disappearances?’

‘Do you mean do I know who took them?’

‘We can’t even be sure if they were taken. But several of their families have commented that the Five were wary of local Army Command.’ She had to hand it to him, Guy used their faux-military language with what could pass for respect. ‘Given Ireland First’s attempts to derail the peace process, it would hardly be surprising if there was some . . . intervention.’

Kenny took another sip, choosing his words as carefully as Guy. ‘The Mayday bombing was condemned by everyone who’s committed to peace,’ he said. ‘Flaherty and his cohorts were neither supported nor aided by any groups I know of. It may be they were advised to leave the area, for the sake of local sensibilities . . . the memorial being unveiled soon and the fifth anniversary coming up. But whether any pressure was applied to hasten their departure – no. I know nothing about that.’

‘Hmm.’ Guy thought. ‘Am I right to say that if it happened, you’d be the man in the know?’

He watched Guy closely. ‘I would hope so, Inspector.’

The priest spoke, in a dry, nervous voice. ‘Mr Kenny is very well connected in the area, where he’s worked tirelessly to bring the Republican movement to the way of peace. And although the bomb was condemned as an atrocity, of course, any retribution against the perpetrators was strongly discouraged.’

Meaning: they’d been asked to ease back on the kneecapping or punishment beatings.

‘Is there anything we could try?’ asked Guy. ‘We’re in something of a bind here. I believe you knew Mr Flaherty when you were both younger?’

Kenny shifted. ‘I wonder where you’d have heard a thing like that, Inspector.’

‘You would have moved in the same . . . circles?’

‘I may have met him once or twice, but not to my knowledge.’ Everyone was choosing their words so delicately it was making Paula hold her breath. Under her smock and cardigan, she stroked the firm rising bump of her pregnancy. This was flesh and certainty, a fresh start, untainted by the past, of the fear she would be born into. Paula just hoped the baby wouldn’t sense where she was.

‘So you don’t know anything about it,’ Guy was saying.

‘I’ve told you all I know, Inspector. We have no contact with rogue elements intent on destabilising the peace process.’

‘And your own Westminster bid? Any truth in that?’

‘I’m in talks with the party about my selection, yes. I’ve been open about that.’

‘But you don’t know Mr Flaherty, and you have no idea where he might be?’

‘As I’ve said, no. Several times.’

‘So why is it then a journalist recently alleged that you and Mr Flaherty were very close friends?’

‘How would I know what you’ve heard, Inspector? I don’t care to repeat myself again.’

Something had shifted – Paula realised the barman had switched off his radio, and was listening intently.

Kira

The next time she went to the house, Kira didn’t climb over the gate. He’d been right about breaking in – it wouldn’t be good to get arrested herself. She got off the bus as before and then just sat on the wall, dangling her legs. March was warm and dry that year, lucky for her. Eventually he came home. It was seven o’clock and his headlights picked her out in the gloom. He must have seen her sitting there hunched, her school bag beside her and regulation school coat on. The gates opened automatically and he went into the light and safeness of his house. After a few minutes Kira got off the wall and started trudging back to the main road. Mammy didn’t ask where she’d been. She never asked any more. Probably she didn’t know what time it was.

The next day, she did it again. And the next. Then it was the weekend, so she couldn’t get there, as there weren’t any buses. On the Monday she went again. Same walk up, same chilly wait in the darkening road, same car getting home and ignoring her. On the Tuesday things changed. He drove his car in as usual, but then he came back. He walked over the lawn towards her. He was wearing a black wool coat. ‘What is it you want, girl? Why are you here, bothering me?’

‘
Dharna
,’ she said, and her voice sounded funny, because she’d sat there all the other days without saying a word.

‘Eh?’

‘I’m sitting so you can see me. Then you have to make me restitution.’

He looked at her for a long time. She realised she was shivering, had been for ages, just hadn’t noticed it.

‘You better come in,’ said the man. ‘You’re freezing, so you are.’

This time the house seemed brighter, more lived in. ‘Stay there.’

Kira waited in the kitchen. There was a plastic bag on the side with a Pot Noodle in it – beef kind. Her stomach groaned – she knew there’d be no dinner for her later, Mammy nearly always forgot to make it these days. Sometimes she made herself a Pot Noodle too, that she bought from the corner shop. She looked all round the place, drinking in the details of where he lived.

The man came back. He’d put on a jumper and taken off his jacket. He leaned on the counter. She realised she was very hungry, and very tired. ‘You’ve been sitting at my door all week,’ he said. ‘What is it you want me to do? I know your sister died. But what can I do about it?’

‘Restitution,’ Kira whispered. It was the only word she could say.

‘It doesn’t work like that.’

‘Why not?’

Silence. On the fridge she saw a letter pinned up. She recognised the logo of Ballyterrin General Hospital. It was where she’d had all her surgery after it happened, five in a row trying to fix her arms and face after the fire had burned her. It was where they’d taken Rose, where she’d died. She saw the words swim into view, words she could read but didn’t understand:
metatastes
 . . . 
stage four
.

She looked back at him. Understood it all, suddenly, in a strange way. As if Rose were breathing the truth into her ear. ‘You’re sick.’ She saw the grey tinge to his skin, the dark circles round his eyes.

He kept on looking at her. ‘I’ll be punished soon enough, lass. It’s all going to be over for me. You know what that letter means?’

‘Sort of.’ She did, somehow, in her bones.

‘Well then. Maybe you’d go along now. I’m not long for this world.’

Kira didn’t budge. ‘Are you afraid? Do you think maybe you’ll die and God will judge you? Do you worry you’ll see them, all the people you hurt? The little babies? Rose?’

His knuckles whitened as he pressed down on the worktop. ‘Why have you come here, child? It’s over. There’s nothing more to be done.’

Kira said, ‘There’s always something. You’re wrong. You can always do something.’