The girl snorted. ‘I’m not a tout, missus. And I know what you did.’
Margaret’s heart sank. This whole family was insane for the cause. ‘But I didn’t—’
‘You didn’t pass on names to the Army? You didn’t copy stuff out of your work?’
All true. She fell silent. ‘I thought I was doing good. Stopping people dying.’
‘You’re a traitor.’ The girl walked closer, holding out one finger, the nail bitten. There was red varnish smeared on it, not allowed at Paula’s school. She pushed at Margaret’s nose. It was gentle but somehow horrific, the idea of this wee girl having power over her. She couldn’t move her hands to push back.
‘Are you off school today then?’ She tried to keep it chatty, in the realm of the normal. Mainly to stop herself losing the head entirely.
‘I don’t go to school.’ She turned, her dark hair swishing and whipping Margaret in the face. ‘Has our Aisling been helping you then?’
‘No, no, we just . . . she talks to me sometimes. That’s all.’
‘Silly bitch. She’s a traitor too.’
There was the noise again, the squeaking of the metal door, and Margaret felt a stab of relief someone was coming so that it wasn’t just this strange girl and herself, even though it was surely someone much worse than a teenager. ‘Emer! What the fuck are you doing in here?’ A man. The older one, with tattoos up his arms, head shaven. Not good-looking like Paddy. More normal somehow. She recognised his voice – he’d come to the house to lift her, him and some other fella. There were three men in total. Handsome man, this tattooed man, and some other quieter one. Sean, this one was called, she thought.
‘I just wanted to see her,’ said the girl he’d called Emer.
‘Well, you better get out before Paddy catches you. This is no place for weans.’
‘I’m not a wean. I want to help.’
The man laughed. ‘Aye, well, make us a cup of tea then.’
‘Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh at me, Sean! I know what you’re doing. I can help.’
Margaret listened to all this, helpless and passive. Sometimes they talked in front of her like she was an object, or dead already. It didn’t matter what the dead heard, after all. That was the thought which chilled her most.
‘Feck on out of here now. Come on.’ The girl went, reluctantly, and the door squeaked closed, shutting out the sunlight and air. Margaret found she was thinking of something Edward had said to her once, lying in the single bed in that horrible safe house in town, behind the market. Even there she’d been rigid with fear the whole time, sure that someone would see her and ask what she was doing in that end of town, and the market only on Thursdays. You could hide nothing in Ballyterrin. She had her story all planned – she was going to see a physiotherapist. There was one next door and if necessary she’d book and pay for it. Lying was second nature to her now.
Edward had been talking about his training, when he joined the SAS, before the injury that sent him into Intelligence. About this house they used for training soldiers at their HQ, full of pretend people, plastic models. You went in and you had to decide who to shoot and who to leave be, all in a second, like you would on a raid. ‘The Killing House’, he’d called it, tracing his fingers over her stomach. ‘That’s what they call it. The Killing House. But it’s just pretend killing. It’s nothing at all like real life, when it comes down to it.’
Not like here. If she ever spoke to him again, she’d tell him she knew what he was talking about now. That she’d been in the real-life killing house as well, and there was nothing pretend about it.
Chapter Nineteen
Hanrahan, the unfortunate victim of the botched operation, was sitting up in bed by the time they got to hospital, his chest bandaged tight. ‘Flesh wound,’ he’d said with bravado, though his face was drained of blood. He’d been lucky the bullet had missed his chest cavity, going through his shoulder instead, but he’d need a lot of physio to get movement back in the arm.
‘Well, Marty,’ Corry greeted him. ‘Been in the wars?’
‘I’ll live. Any news?’
Corry shook her head grimly. ‘There’s no sign of him. We’re combing the area.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve no idea. If you’re up to it, would you mind looking at the body-cam footage? Might shed some light. You’ll have to see yourself get shot, though.’
‘Sure I saw it in real time. Show me.’
Corry had brought a laptop with her, which she now placed on his over-the-bed table. The footage was shaky and the audio very poor, given the wind that day, but it showed the rest of the team, plus a terrified Mairead, pull up near a clearing in the forest. The plan had been for Mairead to get out and walk to the meeting with Paddy alone, as if she’d driven herself. But Paddy had clearly been way ahead of them. As soon as the van stopped and Mairead got out, there was the sound of a shot, the camera shaking badly, and then everything was shouting and confusion, people dragging Hanrahan out and tending to him, and random slices of arms, trees, faces, panicked breathing, running feet.
Corry said, ‘Then when we looked around Mairead was just . . . gone.’
‘Gone?’ said Paula, struggling to understand this. They were a highly trained team of six officers, and one lone man had run rings around them.
‘She was standing there watching, looking scared, and I was trying to help Marty here, and the rest were fanning out into the trees looking for the shooter, and next thing I know I look back and she’s gone. He took her, in the middle of all that.’ Corry was shaking her head. Apart from the professional reprimand she’d likely already received from Willis, it was deeply frustrating, and not a little frightening, for armed police to realise they’d been useless when it came down to it.
Paula said, ‘Did no one get a look at him, or see anything that might be useful?’
Corry’s face was grim. ‘No one else had a cam except me, no one saw him. The man’s like . . . well, like a ghost.’
And now he had Mairead. ‘What can we do?’ said Paula, the guilt weighing down on her like a stone. ‘We have to get her back – we put her in that situation.’ I put her in that situation.
‘We need to question Carly now, see if she saw anything. Otherwise, I don’t know how we’re going to find him.’
‘I can’t let you go in. I really can’t. Sorry.’ Saoirse was only five foot two, but she barred the way to Carly’s hospital room all the same, implacable. ‘She isn’t well enough to answer questions.’
‘But we need to find her mother,’ Corry objected. ‘Surely she’d be up to pointing at a map, telling us if he mentioned any place names. I thought she wasn’t physically hurt?’
‘Not now. I’m sorry. She’s very distressed – I gave her something so she’d sleep.’
Corry sighed, tapping the toe of her flat shoe. She hadn’t changed out of her field uniform yet. ‘Well, has she said anything, talked to the nurses? Any information at all would really help us out.’
Saoirse relented. ‘You can sit with her for a moment. If she wakes up, you can try a few questions. Don’t push her. The poor girl is distraught.’
Corry slipped into the room, and Saoirse put up a hand to stop Paula following. ‘Don’t crowd her, OK?’
‘OK.’ Through the window, Paula could see Carly lying in bed, tiny and pale without her make-up. She seemed to be out cold, but Corry settled beside her, giving the girl’s hand a tender pat. Her own daughter, Rosie, was not much younger than Carly.
Paula turned to her friend. ‘Poor girl. Will she be OK?’
‘Physically, yes. But if you don’t find her mother . . .’
Paula winced, not wanting to think about the end of that sentence. ‘I know. What about you, are you OK?’ Saoirse looked well. Glowing, as the cliché went.
‘Ah, I’m grand.’ Despite the grim place they were in, f
ull of sickness and worry, Saoirse couldn’t keep the smile from her face. ‘Everyone tells you how awful it is, the boking and the tiredness, but nobody says it’s great too. You know that feeling, that you’re never on your own? That somebody’s always with you? I get these little bubbles sometimes, in my stomach. Excitement. Or maybe it’s them, saying hello.’ Her hand went over her stomach, protective.
Paula didn’t want to ruin it by telling her that the feeling of never being alone was less fun when you hadn’t peed by yourself in three years. ‘Yeah.’
Saoirse’s face hardened. ‘I can understand it, you know. Why Carly’s mother risked it. You’d do anything for them, wouldn’t you? I already would.’
‘I know. At least we got Carly back. You really think she’ll be fine?’
‘I don’t see why not. There’s nothing medically wrong with her; she wasn’t mistreated. She’s just worried sick about her mum, poor girl. You’ll be able to question her soon and . . .’ They both turned as a tapping sound came down the corridor, and a blonde woman with a cane, wearing red Converse, approached them. ‘Maeve!’ said Saoirse, leaning to hug her. ‘God, I haven’t seen you this long time.’
‘I know, I know, nose to the grindstone. But I hear congratulations are in order?’ Maeve nodded to Saoirse’s stomach, under her white coat, and Saoirse beamed.
‘Early days, but, yeah.’
‘Well, that’s great. Sinead and me had some good news too.’
Saoirse made a sort of girly squealing sound, which was disconcerting when you knew she’d likely been up to her elbows in someone’s chest only minutes ago. ‘That’s amazing! She’s expecting too?’
‘Aye, well, I can hardly do it now. Due in Feb.’
‘I’m March. We’ll have to get together.’
Paula smiled at them, her two friends – though Maeve Cooley, a Dublin-based investigative journalist, had been Aidan’s friend to start with. She was happy for them, with their partners and babies and lives, but it just reminded her she was spinning her own wheels, waiting for a man who was maybe never coming back, at least not in the same way.
Saoirse’s pager went and she departed, promising to email Maeve to compare notes about pregnancies. ‘What brings you here?’ said Paula, knowing Maeve went where the story was. But surely the news about Mairead wasn’t out yet. They’d want to spin that as best they could, not reveal that one man had got around an entire trained team.
‘Heard you got Carly Jones back. That’s good, is she OK?’
‘She’s not talked so far. She’s in a bit of a state.’
‘And it was Paddy Wallace who had her? Did you see him?’
It reminded her of Aidan, this oh-so-casual questioning, which was not casual at all. Paula gave her a wry look. ‘Would I tell you if I had?’
Maeve shrugged. ‘Worth a try. This on-the-run stuff is getting good coverage right now. Add in the kidnapped girl, the long-lost niece, and well – I might be sticking around Ballyterrin for a bit. How’s Aidan?’
The question took her by surprise. ‘Well, he’s – I don’t know. He’s been having visitors, though. Seems like a good sign.’ She could tell from Maeve’s nod she already knew that. ‘You saw him too?’ He’d see anyone except her, it seemed. She tried not to mind.
‘He asked me to come. He’s ready to fight this thing, I think.’
Paula frowned at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s talking about launching an appeal. Seeing lawyers. You know, everything we wished he would do last year.’ Maeve peered at her. ‘That’s good news. Isn’t it? If he wants to appeal?’
‘I . . .’ Paula gestured helplessly. ‘I’m so afraid, Maeve. They might not even agree to an appeal. All the evidence, it’s so damning, and I’m afraid – I’m going to lose him forever.’ And why the change of heart? Aidan had been dead set on going down for the crime, even though they couldn’t be certain he’d actually killed Conlon. She wasn’t sure she could allow herself to hope again. Once you opened up a chink of light, it could sometimes show you just how bad things were.
‘Ah, come on. There’s a chance, still. He didn’t do it, that has to count for something.’
‘But . . . he might have.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘Anyway, it looks as if he did. Maybe that’s the same thing, in the courts.’ She got a brief flash of what her life might be if these leads on her mother came to something and she was dead. If Aidan’s appeal failed. Once the tiny, struggling bit of hope she had was truly stamped on and dead. If her mother was really gone and Aidan was in prison for years, what then? What was Paula’s life?
Maeve brushed back her hair, and Paula saw the scarring on her lovely face, from where she’d been caught in a petrol bomb attack a few years before. Something in Aidan had broken seeing his friend like that. It’s me, he’d said to Paula. These things keep happening to me. My fault. And she’d told him not to be so daft, and they’d tried their best, fought for their two years of happiness. Just ordinary happiness, a couple in a terraced house with jobs and a child, but even that they hadn’t been allowed to keep.
‘I thought my life was over when this happened,’ Maeve said, tapping her scar. ‘Wouldn’t be able to chase down stories, climb over fences, all that malarkey. But I’m fine. Hey, I’m going to be a mammy! Where’s that Paula Maguire stubbornness? There’s still a chance. Aidan’s always got in his own way, he’s as contrary as you are, but if he’s willing to fight at last, who knows what’ll happen? Just have a little faith, Maguire. Don’t give up on him.’
Faith. A town like Ballyterrin was steeped in it, faith in marriage and family and God and tradition. Paula had never had much, which was why she’d run away when she could. Now, she found herself wishing she could borrow some. Just to believe that maybe one day, her life would be OK again. She smiled at Maeve as best she could. ‘I’ll try. In the meantime, how about you tell me something useful on Paddy Wallace? Ghost or no ghost, he’s a real-life man, and that means he has to be hiding somewhere. He must have help, to stay under the radar for so long.’
‘OK,’ said Maeve reluctantly. Even with close friends she liked a little quid pro quo for her information. ‘Paddy Wallace used to run an IRA punishment squad, yes? He’s been gone for years, and now he’s back in town, putting himself at risk of arrest and a long spell in prison. So, why?’
‘You tell me.’ She’d been wondering about that herself. The timing of it all, the bodies at the farm, Paddy snatching Carly then giving her back. All to get at his sister?
‘Have you come across the name Mark O’Hanlon?’
‘Hmm, maybe.’ It rang a bell, though she wasn’t sure why. ‘How come?’
‘Oh, it’s probably nothing, but . . . ask your mate Gerard about him. He turned up dead a few weeks back. Anyway, he was one of Paddy Wallace’s pals way back. Helped interrogate people.’
‘And he’s dead?’
‘Aye. He’s dead, Sean Conlon’s dead, and Paddy Wallace is back.’
Paula waited for more information. ‘That’s it?’
Maeve raised a hand. ‘Like I say, probably nothing. Just ask Gerard, though. And when Carly’s ready to talk, you know where I am.’
Chapter Twenty
‘He didn’t say anything,’ Carly insisted. ‘We was drinking tea and then he grabbed me. He’s so strong! I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t do anything.’
‘He took you in a car?’ Corry asked. ‘Or was it a van?’
‘I dunno. He put this thing on my head, a bag or something like. All rough.’ She fingered her shiny dark hair. ‘Then we was driving out of town and he pushed me down in the footwell like. Think it was a van or something, maybe. He had to help me up into it. You know.’
‘And he never said anything else, didn’t mention any other locations?’
‘He never said a word to me after that, except for the video. It was . . .’ She shuddered in the
hospital bed, pulling her jumper around her. ‘It was spooky. He never said a thing.’
‘All right, Carly. If you think of anything else, please let us know.’
‘Where’s my mum? Are you looking for her?’
‘We . . . we’re going to do everything we can.’
‘But you had her!’ Carly looked between them, incredulous. ‘How could he just get her?’
Corry paused. ‘I’m sorry. We’ll do everything we can.’ Her eyes met Paula’s – it was a good question. How could they have let this happen? Police roadblocks all round the area had turned up nothing, and the surveillance helicopter was drawing a blank. It seemed as if Mairead and her brother had simply vanished into the landscape, the bleak, forbidding bogland that had swallowed so many secrets before. The next step was to go public, replace the alerts for Carly with ones for Mairead, and that meant explaining to the press and everyone else that they’d managed to find the girl and in the process lose the mother, right under the noses of the police. And Paula knew, deep in her stomach, it was her fault. She’d put Mairead in danger – it was up to her to fix it.
On the way into the station, Paula took her phone out to check for messages, and saw she had two missed calls. She saw the name Davey. The PI only ever contacted her when he had news. Her stomach fell away. Today of all days, she really didn’t have time for this. She palmed the phone and slipped off to a quiet spot beside the interview rooms.
Once alone she dialled him back, noticing how her fingers left smudged marks on the screen. Her fingerprints, the unique combination of whorls and arcs that only she had. What they used to identify you, if you turned up dead. ‘Davey?’
‘Well.’ His raspy smoker’s voice was unusually sombre as he got straight to it. ‘No easy way to say this. I’ve bad news.’
Oh, shit. She leaned against the wall for support. This was it. Her mother was dead, killed in that farmhouse after all. So where was her body? Would they find it somewhere else on the land? Had she been walking about on top of it?
The Killing House Page 13