The Killing House

by Claire McGowan

  ‘I don’t know, is the honest truth. Even now, with the tip-off . . . I could never picture her gone. Had to try – I owed it to Pat – but no, I’ve never been able to see it.’

  Paula knew what he meant. Although she’d told herself time and time again to be prepared, that anyone who disappeared for twenty years was surely dead, some part of her couldn’t take it in. Perhaps that was why they made you look at the body in the morgue, see with your own eyes that they were dead and gone, try to accept it. Maybe everyone with a long-missing loved one felt this way. It was something she’d heard the families of the Disappeared say a lot, that they just wanted a body, just wanted closure. Were they really after a way to kill that terrible treacherous hope? ‘I don’t know either, Daddy.’

  Her father was quiet for a long time, focused on the flickering TV. Eventually he said, ‘It’s in the past now. All we can do is try to get on with our lives. You too.’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘You might have moved away, but any fool can see your mind’s never left this town. And your man down the road.’ Meaning Aidan.

  ‘I can’t just forget about him. Would you?’

  ‘I’m not saying forget. But you know as well as I do he’ll be in there a long time, unless something new comes up.’

  ‘You think he did it,’ she stated, quietly.

  Her father shrugged. ‘Never said that. But see if I was still working up on the hill, and I’d arrested him? I’d have made damn sure he went down for it, and stayed down. Whoever it was he killed, terrorist or not.’

  But he’s innocent, she wanted to say. But it isn’t fair. ‘He deserves a chance,’ she said weakly. ‘Maybe an appeal . . .’

  ‘Aye, I know, and Pat’ll stand by him no matter what, and I’ll stand by her, but you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and that wee girl to raise.’

  ‘I went, didn’t I? I took the London job.’ Paula knew she sounded petulant, something her father could always bring out in her. She also knew it wasn’t much of a fresh start, working alongside Guy Brooking every day, and failing to tell him the truth about Maggie.

  ‘Aye, and you’re straight back here like a boomerang. I don’t like to see you so far away, pet, you know that, but I want to see you happy. I don’t know if there’s any happiness for you here, waiting for Aidan.’

  ‘I’m not waiting for him,’ she muttered. Her father just raised his eyebrows. ‘We’re going back after Avril and Gerard’s wedding. I’ll try to settle in more. I hear what you’re saying.’

  ‘You went through a lot,’ he said, eyes back on the TV. ‘With your mother. No wean should have to go through that, and it may be we’ll never find out why. I just want to know you won’t spend your whole life chasing a ghost.’

  She’d have liked to say she wasn’t, she wouldn’t, but for years now it had been so close, just beyond the reach of her fingers. The note, a real and concrete thing. Davey’s investigation. Now this phone call, the claim her body was there. Only to find an empty grave, another dead end. ‘But Daddy—’

  ‘What would you even do if you found her?’ The question floored Paula.

  ‘Well, we’d bury her, and I’d—’

  ‘Not her body, pet. Her.’

  Her hand was shaking. Slowly, she put the cup down on the side table. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I told myself a long time ago I’d let her go,’ PJ said. ‘Whatever happened to her. I’d let her go in peace and live my own life. Can you do the same, pet?’

  She stared at the floor, Pat’s swirly carpet blurring under her eyes. The truth was she didn’t know what she’d do if she found her mother. Because if she wasn’t dead, she’d been alive all this time and never once contacted her daughter, and how could you ever forgive a thing like that?

  In the silence between them, the TV burbled. PJ’s eyes fixed on it. ‘You’ll be OK, pet,’ he said. ‘You’ll be OK, no matter what.’ She wished she believed that.

  Margaret

  Another day. The sound of the door rattling up again, and blinking against the light. But this time there was hurry, urgency. The girl, Aisling, was kneeling behind her, fumbling with the knots. ‘You have to get out of here,’ she whispered urgently. ‘I heard him say he’s going to do it today. That you won’t talk so he may as well finish it.’

  Her stomach in knots of terror. ‘What?’

  ‘They were talking about it. Deciding, like. So close to the ceasefire, should they give you back – but Paddy said it’s too far gone for that. You’ve seen us all. You know where we are.’

  ‘I don’t! Where are we?’ Her arms were free now, aching and numb, and Aisling was starting on her feet.

  ‘Near the border. Red Road. Go over the back fields till you come to the road.’

  ‘But – what will happen to you?’

  Her dark hair hung over her face, hiding it. ‘Doesn’t matter. I can’t let them do this to you. I’ll get away – my sister’s after running off a few months back, over to England. I can leave too. And you get out of the country, as fast as you can, OK?’

  Margaret stumbled to her feet, stiff and aching. ‘Aisling, I can’t just leave you here. What if he hurts you?’

  ‘I’m his sister.’ She smiled, showing crooked teeth. ‘Has to count for something. Anyway, he’ll think it was one of the lads. Go now. He’s out but he’ll be back soon.’

  Outside was so dazzling she had to close her eyes, leaning on Aisling for support. She hadn’t been sure she’d ever see the outside again, the sky so grey and wide. All around were fields and hedges, nothing to tell you what way was north or south. ‘That way.’ Aisling nudged her. ‘You’ll get to the road. Flag someone down and get them to ring the police.’

  ‘I can’t. I . . . I can’t ring the police.’ How could she, after all this? Tell PJ she was carrying another man’s child?

  ‘Ring whoever you have, then. Just get out of here.’ The girl turned to go.

  ‘Wait! Thank you! How can I . . . God, I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Never mind that.’

  Margaret tried to hug her, feeling how thin the girl was under her T-shirt, her shiny dark hair whipped in the wind. A sudden instinct made her take the necklace off, fumbling agonisingly with the clasp. ‘Here. Just . . . here.’ A cheap trinket, but it was all she had to offer. Small thanks to give for her life.

  The girl stared at it, then slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. ‘Go.’

  Then Margaret set off, hobbling over the farmyard to the field behind, her legs cramped and sore. Her shoes were long lost, and the ground strangely soft and soothing under her bare feet. She could hardly run, and the light was so bright, the land so open. They’d see her, surely. She didn’t look back. There was a tree. She just had to make it to the tree. She could hear her own breath ragged in her ears. Oh God, the fear. She’d never known anything like it. Had it been worth it? Her rage at this country she lived in, burning up and consuming everything, her own quiet life, her husband, silent and broken, her daughter. Even days ago – only days she’d been here! – a chip shop had been blown up on the Shankill Road, two children dead. One seven years old, one Paula’s age. A sickening spiral of violence going on and on. In trying to stop all this she’d blown up her own life. She’d never see Paula again.

  Margaret reached the tree and leaned against it for a second to catch her breath. The farmhouse was indistinct, a typical two-storey house in cream paint, surrounded by outbuildings. Her prison, where she’d been convinced she’d die. She wasn’t sure she’d even be able to find it again if asked. A phone. She had to find a phone, a road, a person, anyone she could tell she was alive and not vanished into the air.

  She was about to set out again when a hand clamped over her mouth, cracked and calloused, and she was lifted off her feet by two burly arms. A voice in her ear said, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

&
nbsp; Chapter Twenty-Five

  Willis Campbell stared at her across the desk. Paula fought down the dislike she’d always had for the man, drafted in to replace Corry when she’d been demoted a few years back. His smooth tanned skin – sunbeds? – his hand-made suits, the cloying smell of his aftershave. ‘Tell me this, Dr Maguire. How could Monaghan’s murder case be an IRA punishment killing, if the IRA disbanded nearly twenty years ago?’ He was splitting hairs, and it irritated her. Everyone knew there’d been recent murders linked to the Republican movement – just the year before, a former informer had been gunned down in his Donegal home. Bad blood from the past. Scores to be reckoned. People who knew more than was good for them – literally where the bodies were buried. People who’d done the unthinkable and touted during the Troubles, thinking themselves safe almost twenty years after it was all over, only to answer the door to a man with a gun. There were always rumblings when such deaths happened, since the terrorist groups were supposed to be disbanded in order for the peace process to hold, but as long as it could be written off as isolated violence, a personal grudge of some kind, it was usually overlooked. Because those groups had officially given up, cleaned up their acts, handed over the guns, so they couldn’t be behind it. A delicate balancing act, aimed at keeping the peace.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, a touch grouchily. ‘I don’t know who did it. I’m just saying it fits the pattern. The money left on the body, the bullet over the ear . . . This has all the hallmarks of a punishment killing. It’s like a throwback to the seventies.’

  He sighed. ‘Dr Maguire. I know you’ve been away . . .’ She bristled at that. This was her home, and a few years away didn’t mean she’d forgotten how things worked. Did it? ‘. . . but we’re on very shaky ground with this. If we say these murders are linked to the IRA, the DUP won’t continue to govern with Sinn Fein. Those are our two largest parties.’ Paula rolled her eyes; as if she didn’t know that. The DUP were the ultra-conservative Protestant party, and getting them into government with former terrorists in the first place had been a remarkable achievement, only possible because the bad old days were supposed to be entirely over and forgotten, Sinn Fein’s links to the IRA thoroughly dissolved and denied. He went on. ‘If our two largest parties won’t work together, our entire system of government will fall apart. The peace process will crumble. There’s a good chance we’d be right back to pre-Agreement violence and direct rule from London.’

  ‘I know, but don’t you think there’s a link? We’ve uncovered two dead bodies on that farm, the place the punishment squad used to use for interrogations, and meanwhile someone’s going around shooting former IRA members.’ Not to mention that Sean Conlon had been murdered the year before. Paula was trying to keep a lid on the beat of excitement in her stomach. Hope, shooting out leaves to the sun. If someone else had killed him, if Aidan could be cleared . . . but she knew Willis would have her off the case as soon as she breathed a word about a possible link to that. She had to be careful. ‘And Paddy Wallace, the Ghost, is back in town, and he’s taken his sister. Him, and Fintan McCabe, and these other two murders . . . They all knew each other. They were friends – colleagues. They saw themselves as soldiers together. What if someone’s trying to settle old scores, or cover something up?’ Was that why Mairead had been taken – did she know something about what had happened back then?

  Willis was scowling. She hoped he wouldn’t bring up Sean Conlon. She needed to stay on this case, for her own sanity. Finally, he sighed. ‘This is going to cause an almighty mess, Dr Maguire. I hope you’re ready for it. Easy for you to drop this then skip off back to London next week, but we’ll be cleaning it up for months. Years, maybe.’

  She tried to look contrite. ‘But sir, we’re finally getting somewhere. If Wallace didn’t get to everyone yet, someone might know where he is, where he’s holding Mairead.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘I’d like to go and speak to Ciaran Wallace again, if you’ll let me. He must know more than he’s told us.’

  Willis sat back too, sighed again. ‘Your job in London – it’s a good one, yes?’

  ‘Well, yes. It’s . . . prestigious. Interesting.’ She tried to sound convincing, hide the fact it bored her. ‘Working with DI Brooking, of course, is a real privilege.’

  He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Well, then. Perhaps after this case you’ll stick to that? Your actual job?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Paula gave nothing away.

  He muttered, ‘Things were a lot quieter around here once you went. Fine, fine. Go and see what Ciaran Wallace has to say and we’ll review it then. Though God alone knows who I’m going to put on it with Monaghan off getting his hair and nails done for this wedding of his.’

  He was one to talk – Gerard had learned his fussy grooming habits off Willis. But Paula just said, ‘Thank you, sir. I’m only trying to find Mairead. I feel responsible, as you can imagine. It was me talked her into going to meet her brother.’

  ‘Hmph. Fine. I just hope you can handle the subsequent media attention. If I say we’ve spotted an IRA link to these murders, all holy hell is going to break loose.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Paula tried to stay calm as she approached the prison visiting area. Not her first time, or even her first as a non-professional visitor, but still she felt queasy and hot. The other women in the queue seemed calm and resigned, holding their belongings in little plastic bags, having surrendered phones, cash, food, headphones, mirrors, sprays, and any other items that weren’t allowed.

  She’d dressed up a bit, foolishly, in a red print dress and boots, just on the off-chance Aidan might be there, and as she was patted down by security, she saw the other women had done likewise, though some had interpreted ‘dressing up’ as leggings and hoop earrings or skin-tight jeans and spiky, tottering boots. They were just the same as her, for all her doctorate and fancy job.

  She moved into the visitors’ hall, its high ceilings echoing like the canteen at school. A quick scan revealed no Aidan, and it was stupid how much her heart sank. How had it come to this? They’d lived together for two years, and now she had to hang around the prison in the hope of spotting him. Pathetic.

  Ciaran Wallace was waiting for her at a table, rolling a cigarette in his hands. ‘Thanks for seeing me again.’ She sat down.

  He shrugged. ‘Dunno what I can tell you.’

  ‘Prontias Ryan.’ She launched right into it. ‘That name mean anything to you?’

  Ciaran nodded cautiously. ‘Mate of our Paddy’s, way back. One of that lot.’

  ‘Mark O’Hanlon?’

  ‘Same. Never knew them that well. Why?’

  That lot, he said. As if he’d himself had nothing to do with the IRA. And yet here he was, serving a sentence for killing an Army officer. Guy had said he’d look into it for her, though she couldn’t say what she was hoping to find. ‘They’ve been murdered, Ciaran. Shot and likely tortured in their homes. Same method as the dead man at your farm – you’ve been told that’s Fintan McCabe?’

  He tapped the roll-up off the table. ‘So they say.’

  ‘Another of Paddy’s mates?’

  ‘Yeah. Short life expectancy, those fellas. Another reason I got out of this country while I could.’

  ‘Ciaran . . . I know you want out of here. You’re innocent, you say?’

  ‘I’ve been saying that for ten years, missus, for all the good it did me. Just have to keep my head down now and do the time.’

  ‘What if we could help you get out sooner?’ she risked.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, opening an appeal. Early probation, even. We just need information. On these fellas, Prontias and Mark, why somebody would kill them now, after all this time. Who might want them dead, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Any God’s amount of people,’ he said, coolly.

  ‘Including your Paddy?’

&nb
sp; ‘Aye. Could be.’

  ‘You know he’s taken your sister.’

  ‘They told me that too. That’s between the two of them.’ Not a flicker on his face.

  Once again, Paula was astounded at the alienation between these siblings. ‘It’s not, though, is it? Mairead didn’t want to go. She wants to be with her daughter, your niece.’

  The words seemed to mean nothing to him. He folded his arms. ‘You want something from me, missus, you better just say. Don’t like to be seen talking to the peelers too often in here. People start to talk.’

  ‘We need to know places Paddy might go. Where he could hide, keep someone against their will.’

  He shrugged. ‘Can’t help you there. He had loads of places. That’s why they called him the Ghost.’

  ‘You never went to any of them with him?’

  ‘Told you, I wasn’t involved in all that. He wanted me to be, but I kept out of it. Moved away when I could.’

  ‘About that.’ She flicked a fragment of tobacco off the table. ‘As you know, it’s Fintan McCabe in that grave we found. The girl, we still don’t have an ID. You don’t know anything about that?’

  ‘No.’ The closed-off look, the same one on Mairead’s face when asked about the dead girl.

  ‘We had a tip-off that a woman was brought to the farm for interrogation in 1993, around the time Fintan McCabe disappeared. Older than this girl. Her name was Margaret.’ Paula took a breath. She was on shaky ground here. ‘She was my mother, Ciaran.’

  A flicker of surprise at that. She saw him glance at her hair and her heart leaped. Did he recognise it? Everyone said how much she looked like her mother. If he’d still been at that farm then, had he been involved in hurting her mother? ‘We never found her body. The tip-off said she was buried at the farm too, but – no. She wasn’t there.’