The Silent Dead (Paula Maguire 3) (16 page)

‘What?’

‘Me. I must be cursed or something. Dad – and you, at Christmas when she stabbed you, that woman – I thought that was it and I’d fucked it all up, you’d be gone and I’d never have— Now Maeve. I’ve no one.’

‘I’m here. I’m fine, Aidan.’

‘The baby’ll come, and who knows what’ll happen?’

‘She’ll be fine too. Everything’s OK.’

‘Don’t even know if she’s mine, but I couldn’t bear it. If she wasn’t OK.’

‘She will be. Aidan!’

But he wasn’t listening. She was about to go over, put her hand on the pale back of his neck, maybe, press his face into her vast bump, but then there was a clatter of feet and an older woman burst in. She wore a navy gilet and had fair hair in a feather cut, and she was sobbing. ‘Oh God. Oh – sweetheart.’

Aidan got up and put his arms round the woman, pinning her. ‘It’s better than it looks, Sheila. They said she’ll likely be OK.’

This must be Maeve’s mother. Paula knew the father had died when Maeve was ten – it was something that linked her to Aidan.

‘Oh look at her, my poor wee girl.’ Sheila was sobbing. ‘Let me see her.’

‘OK, but they said we have to be careful, the tubes and that are a wee bit fragile.’ He stood back to let her get to her daughter.

She stroked Maeve’s hair, touched her forehead. ‘It’s Mum, love,’ she said, voice shaking. ‘Can you hear me? I know you can. You’ll be OK, sweetheart. You did so well today. And your hair looks lovely, did you get it done like I said? You’ll be OK.’

Paula was backing off to the door, letting them be. She caught Aidan’s eye and he followed her out. Those hospital sounds, rattles and squeaking feet and hearts breaking. She hated it.

‘Will you let me know how she is? Please?’

‘If I get time.’ He was still watching through the glass of the door.

‘Aidan – if you go home tonight, maybe you’d – I’d like to see you. I don’t want you being alone.’ She put both hands on her stomach. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Thought you loved it.’

‘Please. This, being pregnant – it leaves you totally vulnerable. I’d like you to come round.’

He looked back in to Maeve. ‘I don’t know if I can.’

‘Well. Think about it.’ Her phone beeped. ‘Shit, it’s Corry. I have to see what she wants. I’ll go now. Take care.’ She drew him into a clumsy hug, her all curves and softness, him angular, unyielding. She felt his hand on the small of her back for a moment and realised he was moving her away.

‘Go on, Maguire,’ he said, distracted. ‘You’re no use to anyone here.’

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

The date 19th October 2010 was perhaps the most significant one since the bombing for the Mayday families. After more than four years of disappointment and waiting, they would finally hear the verdict on the terror suspects accused of murdering their loved ones. Throughout the trial, the five accused had reacted in different ways. They were held in separate docks, but the size of Belfast Crown Court meant that by necessity they were seated very close together while on trial. Lynch and Ni Chonnaill, who’d broken up the month before, traded insults several times and were held in contempt of court. Several times he was heard to call her a ‘slut’ and a ‘dirty cheating whore’. Ni Chonnaill was five months pregnant at the start of the three-month trial, growing visibly bigger throughout, and her lawyer Grainne Devine used every advantage this offered when seeking a recess or deflecting difficult lines of questioning. Doyle wept several times, mentioning his wife and children. Brady appeared confused, addressing the judge at times as ‘Sir’, and once ‘Your Majesty’, which caused a rare burst of laughter amid such grim testimonies. Flaherty alone had refused to recognise the court or engage a solicitor, and simply ignored every question put to him.

Not all the families attended throughout. Some had nothing to do with the case. Some had planned to attend, then found work getting in the way, or couldn’t sit through hours of brutal testimony on how their loved ones had died. John Lenehan was present on every day of the trial, taking the bus forty miles from his home in Ballyterrin, which may have contributed to the stroke he suffered on the day of the verdict.

As the jury came back, most of the families had gathered. Dominic Martin had also been there almost every day, despite needing to sustain his freelance energy business. Ann Ward, the group’s secretary, also came, making copious notes where she could. Also present were the Woods, the Sloanes, whose daughter Lily was badly maimed in the bomb, Tom Kennedy’s widow, the Connolly family, and the Garstons. The grandfather of Daniel Jones had attended much of it, although he was in his eighties. The sight of Mr Jones and John Lenehan, leaning on canes to listen to the verdict, brought tears to many of the jurors’ eyes.

Throughout the trial much interest had centred on the figure of Catherine Ni Chonnaill. A strikingly beautiful woman with long blonde hair, at five-eight taller than many of the men in court, she drew the eyes in the succession of colourful dresses she chose to wear in the dock. Scarlet and pink, vivid patterns, heavy necklaces and every day a slick of red lipstick she reapplied after eating her courtroom lunch in the cells. The lipstick was commented on widely at the time. Red as the blood on her hands, said one commentator, who shall remain nameless, violating somewhat the principle of
sub judice
. She kept drawing attention to the bump of her baby, stroking it and sometimes shifting or wincing as if in discomfort. A member of the jury afterwards told me in confidence they’d found it extremely difficult to sit in judgement on Ni Chonnaill.
We were listening to the most awful stuff, wee babies blown up and that, and she was sitting there obviously expecting herself, looking so happy and calm. It was hard to imagine sending her to prison like that.

On 19th October 2010, the jury was due to give their verdict on the Mayday Five.

Chapter Nineteen

The door of Corry’s office opened with a snap. She was still dressed in what she’d worn to the memorial, the sober black suit. Her fair hair was loose, still neat despite everything that had happened that day. Paula sighed at her own sweaty, unravelling self.

‘Dr Maguire, come in.’

She gathered her papers and blundered in to the pin-neat office. Even the office plants were alive and blooming on the windowsill, which gave an uninspiring view over the reinforced car park with its bombproof walls.

Corry had settled herself behind the desk. ‘I thought we should talk, after today. I hear there was some trouble down at the station yesterday. A complaint about intra-office relationships.’

That could have been either herself and Guy, or Gerard and Avril. Paula answered very carefully. ‘There was some mention about it. I don’t know, I’ve been so busy with the case.’

‘There are rules, of course, on that sort of thing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Though I’ve often felt they were more like guidelines. People are only human.’

‘Yes.’

‘Just as long as it doesn’t interfere with work.’ The message was clear –
sort it out or get off my case.

‘It won’t.’

Corry had settled behind her desk. ‘How is your friend?’

‘Not great. They say she should pull through, but . . . it’s difficult. The grenade exploded right in front of her, and they think the blast damaged her heart. She has burns too.’

‘We’re getting reports that it was thrown by a fair-haired man, later seen running in two different directions out of the square – so God knows what that means. There was a lot of confusion.’

‘Were they aiming at Maeve? Because of her book?’

‘It’s hard to say. Could have been Kenny, especially if he had something to do with these murders. But you’re still convinced there’s a link with the families?’

‘It’s clear someone is doing this for punishment. Even the staggered release of the bodies – this wasn’t done to get rid of the Mayday Five. They’d have been quietly disappeared if Kenny wanted a clear election run. No, I think it’s vindictive, rage-filled – but at the same time very ordered. I want us to keep looking at the relatives. After all, they had the most reason to hate the bombers. And there was Martin’s van, of course. Did we take the writing samples?’

‘Yes, we got samples from all the adults in the group, but none matches the writing on the notes. The type of notebook Ann Ward uses matched the one found in the caves, true enough – but you can get those anywhere. So, a dead end again.’

‘You were working that day,’ said Paula. ‘The day of the bomb.’

Corry nodded slowly. ‘I went straight to Crossanure when it happened. We had to help dig out the bodies. There was a wee boy, he was about nine or ten. My Connor was the same age then. Daniel Jones, I think it was. I helped get him out from under a wooden door. Not a mark on him but he was dead, white as a ghost with plaster.’ She stopped. ‘It’s hard to forget things like that.’

There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ Corry called, switching back to a brisk tone of voice. ‘This is why I asked you here. I want you to hear Dr Finney’s take on it.’

He was standing in the door, dressed in a heather-coloured jumper and jeans. He carried three polystyrene cups, which was easy because his hands were huge. Paula noticed what looked like a fresh burn on the side of one. ‘I thought some tea would help.’ He placed them on the desk. ‘Hello, Dr Maguire.’

‘Hello.’ She had an odd feeling seeing him, some kind of aversion mixed with something like excitement. She tried to focus on what Corry was saying.

‘The samples don’t match then, Dr Finney. From Dominic Martin’s van.’

‘I’m afraid not. Of course, there was extensive charring, but I was able to take samples from what was left. There’s no trace of this particular mineral in his vehicle. Whoever did the killings would almost certainly have picked up some of it from the sea caves while transporting the bodies.’

Corry was frowning. ‘But there’s clearly a second site – two of the bombers are still missing, so they must have been moved elsewhere. Isn’t it possible he wasn’t at the caves?’

‘Did you test his shoes?’ Paula asked. She saw Finney look annoyed for a moment; perhaps he thought she was questioning his judgement. ‘That can be useful, both for forensics and analysing footprints. The pattern of wear, and so on.’

‘We can send casts off to a lab in London that does podiatry stuff,’ said Corry. ‘I’ll see if we can get a warrant for Martin’s shoes too. It’s sensitive. We can’t push the families too far – the press are all over me as it is.’

Finney sipped his drink. He seemed to fill the small room, giving off a warm citrus smell. ‘Is there any need to involve the families at all? It must be devastating for them. I think this has all the hallmarks of IRA punishment, to be honest. And I found no traces, as I said. The van had been reported stolen anyway, hadn’t it?’

It wasn’t his job to say what he thought and Corry knew it. She said, rather stiffly, ‘We aren’t ruling anything out yet. I’d like your team to carry on searching the bogland, look for any disturbed ground. There are two other potential bodies, let’s not forget. If we can find them alive, that would be something.’

Intuition was a funny thing. As a clinically trained psychologist, Paula told herself it existed in some way science hadn’t yet mastered – a leap between neurons, a message in the air between people. She’d had an ancestor, her mother had once told her, with the second sight. Officially Paula did not believe in second sight, but she believed there were powerful currents between people, ways to know things without words. She knew there was something about Finney that made her uncomfortable – a way of standing too close, holding your gaze for too long with his pale eyes. He was attractive. She knew this in her bones, so she was rude to him just to be safe.

But it wasn’t until she saw Corry and Finney together that she made that wordless leap. Corry had been entirely professional throughout her work with him, addressing him as Dr Finney, deferring to his expertise while drawing her own conclusions. It was because he’d brought tea that Corry made the mistake. She picked hers up and sipped it, exclaiming, ‘Ah Lorcan, you know I don’t take milk.’ A short silence fell and in it Paula saw a momentary flicker on Corry’s usually impassive face, and knew –
she is sleeping with him.
Her skin grew hot. She was actually a little shocked, while chiding herself with the reminder that she herself had slept with her boss the first week on the job, and possibly was having his baby. But Corry had fought her way up through institutionalised sexism by being both tough as nails and rigidly by the book. If it got out she’d slept with one of the forensic experts, the whole case could be compromised.

‘Sorry,’ he said, betraying nothing. ‘I’ve a rubbish memory.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Corry, too quickly. ‘Won’t do me any harm the once.’

Paula reached for her own and made a slight noise on finding the cup was scalding to the touch. When she looked up, Lorcan Finney was watching her.

‘Thank you, Dr Finney,’ said Corry, very formally. ‘We won’t need you for now.’

‘Well, you know where I am if I can help.’ His smile was a dangerous thing. Paula was glad when he’d gone, but only for a moment, because Corry immediately launched another blindsider at her, as if to cover up what had just passed.

‘I know about your complaint against DS Hamilton. And I wanted to say . . . I understand, but you need to tread carefully. Are you even supposed to have that file?’

Paula looked at her hands. Even she was surprised by what she said next. ‘I want to talk to Sean Conlon. Send me. He might know something about this case – he was in the IRA right up till he got arrested in ’ninety-nine. It’s a good lead.’

Corry stared at her. ‘You must be joking me. This being the same Sean Conlon who said last year he might know something about your mother’s case? Sean Conlon the IRA terrorist who wants early release in return for maybe telling us where they buried their victims? You want me to send you to
him
?’

‘Yes.’

‘And violate every ethical code and possibly get myself a Professional Standards Enquiry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pau-
la
.’

‘He-
len
.’ She wasn’t supposed to call DCI Corry that at work, but they’d become friends of a sort over the past while. ‘I’ve looked into every lead there was. I’ve asked everyone who used to know my mother. I went through all the case files. There’s nothing new. And now this, from my neighbour – I think DS Hamilton knows something that isn’t in the file.’

‘She’s been declared dead, Paula.’

‘Yes. My dad wanted to remarry. And I can’t blame him. It’s been seventeen years; he deserves some happiness. But – I’m pregnant.’

Corry squinted in frustration. ‘Which is relevant how?’

Paula thought how to say it. ‘I sort of feel . . . I need to know what happened to my mother, before I can become one myself.’ That was so cheesy she could hardly get the words out, but all the same fairly close to the truth of what was driving her.

Corry sighed. ‘And what exactly is your plan, if I get you in to talk to Sean Conlon? What’s the connection? He’s been in jail for years.’

‘He said he knew something. It was in the file – when the Commission for the Disappeared went to interview him last year, he said he knew her name. It’s the only small link I have. Mum—’ Paula’s mouth still dried on the word. She swallowed. ‘My mother worked in a solicitor’s office where they defended Republican prisoners. Several years before she vanished, a British soldier died in her arms at a checkpoint. Sniper. She – I’m trying to piece it together, but I think it all just disgusted her. There was talk she’d leaked documents to Special Branch. And my father, as you know, was a Catholic RUC officer. They had every reason to take her.’

‘So you want to dander in there and ask Sean Conlon if he kidnapped your mother?’

‘I just want to see him,’ Paula said. ‘I want to look him in the eyes. And if I interview him, it’s non-binding. He can talk to me in confidence. Clinically. I can ask him about the Mayday case too.’

Corry shook her head. ‘Most of these men are dead inside, Paula. They’re so sure of their cause they literally don’t care about who gets killed on the way. What makes you think he would help you?’

‘I have to try. I have to push at every stone.’

‘All right. I’ll try to help you. On two conditions. One is that you do nothing unprofessional. You don’t tell him who you are. You may speak to him generally and assess him – we’ll say it’s a function of the MPRU. A chance for him to confess in confidence and help any families of the missing. You do not tell him you’re her daughter.’

‘OK,’ Paula nodded. ‘And the other?’

‘You give me an answer on the job once and for all. I want to know if you’re ever going to come and work for me.’

‘But I . . .’ She indicated her stomach. ‘It’s not the best time, surely, even if I were going to move? I’ll be on leave at least for a while.’

Corry hesitated. ‘I’m not supposed to tell you this, but – the MPRU. I don’t know for sure, but there’s a good chance it won’t get funded next year.’

‘Really? Does Guy know? DI Brooking, I mean.’

It was the wrong thing to say. ‘Of course he knows. Why do you think he’s been away at all these meetings?’

He knew their jobs were all at risk, and he hadn’t told her. Paula thought about this for a moment. ‘He never said anything.’

Corry gave her a hard stare. ‘He doesn’t tell you everything, you know.’

‘No. I suppose not.’ And she didn’t tell him everything either, of course.

Corry looked impatient. ‘I didn’t officially tell you that. It’s only a possibility for now. But be smart, Paula. You need to think of that wean now too. There’s a job for you here, if you want it. And it would be good for you – you’re far too emotionally involved in missing persons. You could do a much better job on other cases. Think about it.’

‘OK. I will. Thank you.’ She was speaking mechanically, trying to process it. ‘But you’ll help me, anyway?’

‘And what if Conlon does know something? If he says he had a hand in killing your mother in 1993, and you have to sit there and write it all down, knowing you can’t pin a single charge on him?’

‘That might be the case.’

‘You could handle that, could you, knowing the man will likely be free in a few months and you might bump into him in Dunnes?’

‘I usually do my shopping in Sainsbury’s,’ said Paula vaguely.

Corry gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I wonder why it is, Dr Maguire, that you seem to continually get away with poking at the rules.’

‘You know how it is,’ said Paula riskily. ‘Some rules are more like guidelines anyway.’

There was a long, dangerous pause. Could have gone either way. But she was getting to know Helen Corry better, and suspected there was nothing that warmed the DCI’s heart more than an equally bolshie woman on her team. ‘Dr Maguire,’ she said levelly. ‘Go home. You’ve been overdoing it and I haven’t the budget for washing afterbirth out of the carpet.’

She got up, slow and ponderous as a ship turning in harbour. She’d pushed her luck too far. ‘Thank you for helping me. With Conlon, I mean. I know it’s caused some problems.’

‘Hmph. I meant what I said. I don’t want to see you hanging round here trying to pretend you aren’t massively pregnant. Get some rest, for God’s sake.’

‘I’ll try,’ Paula said, knowing that she couldn’t. She had the sense that time was running out, that perhaps she’d had the first chance in seventeen years to find out what happened to her mother, and it was about to slip through her puffy pregnant fingers.

She flexed them as she got up, seeing only dark branches and the gleam of moon on bone, feeling the grit of soil in her nails.
I have to find her. I have to keep digging.

As Paula lumbered out of the room, about to follow Corry’s advice and go home, she was intercepted by a sweaty Gerard, jogging down the long carpeted corridor towards the interview rooms. ‘Hey Maguire. I was looking for you. We’ve found the fella who threw the grenade.’