The Killing House

by Claire McGowan

  Maggie would not be fobbed off so easily. She too was looking round the church. ‘Who’s that man, Mummy?’

  Paula spotted Fiacra, togged up in a grey suit, fair curls pressed into submission. An unfeasibly tall and glamorous woman picked her way behind him, in heels that pushed her feet up almost vertical. Paula smiled at him, motioning him into the seat beside her. ‘You came!’

  ‘Aye, of course. Wouldn’t miss it. This is Gisela.’ Paula smiled at her politely while Fiacra craned under the seat to see Maggie. ‘Hello, pet.’

  Maggie stared at him from the gloom. ‘Who’s that, Mummy?’

  ‘Mummy’s friend Fiacra, say hello.’

  Suddenly she got shy, returning to her below-seat excavations. Paula wondered what she’d found under there. Something dirty, no doubt. She was just feeling relieved that she had someone to sit with when a different voice said, ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Crap. Of course Guy was here. She’d hoped he might get distracted by some handy murder in London, or have to stay with pregnant Tess. Oh God, she wasn’t here too, was she? No, no sign of her. Guy was looking irritatingly good, in some expensive navy suit, a red tie. And there was her old enemy, the citrus aftershave. She moved as far away as possible. He was shaking hands with Fiacra. ‘The old team back together, eh?’

  Paula fixed on a smile. ‘Look, Maggie, it’s Mr Guy from Mummy’s work.’ Your father! Surprise!

  He bent down and as always Paula held her breath, waiting for him to notice. ‘Hello, Maggie.’

  Maggie peered out from under the seat. ‘Who you?’

  ‘Maggie!’ Paula scolded. ‘Be polite, you know who he is.’ Your father. This is your father. One day, it would have to be said. So far, Maggie only looked like her namesake, Paula’s mother. No sign of Guy had surfaced yet in her features, thank God. ‘No Tess?’ she said casually.

  ‘She’s not allowed to fly, this far along.’ He eased himself into the pew. ‘So what kind of church is this, then?’

  ‘Presbyterian,’ said Fiacra, talking out of the side of his mouth, like Pat had. ‘My mammy blessed me in holy water before she let me out of the house.’

  There was a general commotion at the front of the church, everyone standing up. Paula saw Gerard all gussied up in his waistcoat and frock coat, his face very red. The brick-shithouse fella beside him must be his brother. At least one of his uncles had a conviction for being in the IRA. Whereas Avril’s grandfather had been the head of his Orange lodge. This wedding was a minefield.

  It was the moment she always used to love. The bride in the doorway with her father, nervous, fussing at her unfamiliar long skirt. Everyone looking, smiling. In Paula’s case she’d been there alone, determined not to be given away. She’d been so nervous she’d almost bolted, even before seeing the police car outside. Someone was singing a high soprano, wobbly. Avril in her dress, a veil over her face. She’d gone for a safe Princess Kate-like style, her arms and chest covered. Paula stored away details to tell Pat. Then she was walking, her overly made-up face hardly visible under the acres of lace, and her father was shuffling, out of time with the music, and Avril was struggling in her heels. But then she reached Gerard and put up her veil, and they smiled at each other, a small moment of isn’t this daft in the middle of all that pomp, and he took her hand and tucked it under his arm. Paula turned away, a lump in her throat. Aidan should be here with her, at her side, helping to stop Maggie eating dust off the floor or whatever she was doing down there. It wasn’t right. Was she going to miss him for the rest of her life?

  The wedding went by, as they always did. Ceremony, photos, into the car, hotel, drinks reception, meal (soup, roast beef, pavlova) and speeches. Carefully worded, welcoming Gerard and Avril to the respective families, no mention made of the tension that had preceded the day. Paula saw the strained look gradually fade from Avril’s face, and knew she’d been right. It would all be OK. It was always OK – unless you were her, of course, and your wedding turned into a trip to the police station. As they brought pieces of wedding cake around, she heard her phone vibrate. ‘Come on, Miss Maggie, Granddad’s here to get you.’

  ‘Don’t wanna go home!’ She arched her body mutinously in her chair. Her place was strewn about with food, as if she’d smeared her hands in it and wiped them everywhere. Which she might well have done.

  ‘Well, tough, you have to. You have to tell Granny and Granddad all about it, don’t you? And you can watch Frozen.’

  ‘Can I keep my dress on?’

  ‘Yes, OK. Come on.’ She saw Guy smile at her indulgently as she cajoled Maggie from the seat and into her cardigan. Probably thinking of the new child he’d have soon. She knew he’d assumed, and she’d let him believe, that Aidan was Maggie’s father. Not exactly a lie, but not the truth either. For a moment she let herself picture it – her and Guy together, him helping to wrangle Maggie, knowing she was his daughter . . . but no. That could never happen.

  PJ was waiting outside, leaning against the car, bang on time as always. ‘Well, pet. Well, Miss Maggie.’

  ‘Grandda, Grandda, Mum says I can watch Frozen in my wedding dress.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Paula, passing Maggie’s hand to her father. ‘Couldn’t get her to go otherwise; she’d have danced the night away. Oh, and she’s hopped up on sugar too.’

  ‘Never worry, we’ll mind her. You’ll get a taxi back?’ Even though she had lived away from Ballyterrin for years, her father always wanted to know how she was getting home.

  ‘Yeah, or someone can give me a lift.’ Paula glanced back towards the hotel, seeing a familiar balding head through the window of the bar. There was at least one person she knew who didn’t drink, after all. Suddenly she had an idea. ‘Dad . . . will you come in a minute, say hello?’

  ‘Ah, pet, I’m not dressed for it.’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  Taking Maggie in again sent mixed messages that might provoke a mutiny, but all the same Paula walked her to the bar, her father following reluctantly. Avril was there in her wedding dress, posing for family snaps. Paula waved to her in a moment of lull. ‘Here’s my dad, just wanted to say congratulations.’

  ‘You’re looking beautiful, pet,’ said PJ, shaking her hand and Gerard’s.

  ‘And here’s Bob,’ said Paula seamlessly, spotting him hovering in the background in his ill-fitting grey suit. She held her breath. It was the first time her father and his former partner had met in years. There was a lot of bad blood between them, she knew, though not exactly what.

  Luckily, three-year-olds were quite good at smoothing over social tension. ‘Mr Bob, Mummy says I have to go home with Grandda,’ said Maggie sulkily.

  Bob stooped to the child. ‘I think your mammy’s right, wee pet. You’ll be very tired otherwise.’

  ‘I won’t be tired.’ Then she yawned, negating her argument somewhat.

  Paula saw Bob hesitate, then hold out his hand. ‘PJ.’

  Another hesitation before PJ took it. ‘Bob.’

  ‘You’ve a lovely wee granddaughter there.’

  ‘Aye, she’s a handful all right.’ He hesitated. ‘I was . . . Pat and I were very sorry to hear about Ian.’

  Bob looked at his feet. ‘Thanks, PJ. It was hard enough, so it was. Linda’s here somewhere too.’

  ‘Tell her I said hello.’ PJ turned his attention to the child, who was trying to hide under a chair. ‘I better get this one home. Take care, Bob.’

  ‘And you.’

  It wasn’t much, Paula thought, watching her father cart off a protesting Maggie, but it was a start.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘They make a lovely couple, don’t they?’

  Paula looked up to see Guy had come over, draining the last of his Peroni. His tie was loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up; he’d been dancing earlier. Of course he had, the perfect wedding guest, shaking hands and kissi
ng cheeks, dandling children, standing rounds. ‘Yeah. Always thought they’d end up together.’ In a spotlight, Avril and Gerard rocked gently to their song, the Bon Jovi number ‘Always’. It was done, no one had come to blows, and they were married. Avril’s mascara was smudged and her hair coming down; she looked blissful.

  ‘Do you remember when you caught them in the corridor that time?’ Guy shook his head, pulling up a chair beside her. ‘That was awkward.’

  It certainly had been. Avril had been engaged to someone else at the time, and Fiacra was in love with her too, and things had kicked off. But Paula also remembered Fiacra’s comments at the time, shouted to her and Guy. Am I the only person who can behave around here? She’d already been pregnant with Maggie, in desperate denial, no idea whether Aidan or Guy was the father. That question had been answered against her will, and it was not what she’d been hoping for. There was no getting away from it – knowing she had a child with him made her feel tied to Guy forever. Maybe he’d never be just a friend, a work colleague. She looked away from him, at the swirling patterns of the lights. The wedding was winding down, the tea and evening buffet already brought out. She needed to leave soon. She had no one’s arms to sway in herself, no one to go home to. This was not her home any more. ‘How’s Tess then?’ she asked lightly. ‘Must be soon now.’

  ‘Next week, probably. Not sure I’ll be up to it again, after all these years!’ The Brookings’ daughter was off to university already, and their son had been killed when he was ten, before Guy had come to Northern Ireland in an effort to escape it. He had another child, of course, but he didn’t know. How could she tell him? He and Tess were salvaging what was left of their marriage, somehow, with this sticking-plaster baby, and she wasn’t about to rip that off. She tried to move the conversation back to work, which was marginally safer. ‘Did you get a chance to look into that case for me?’

  Guy moved closer, lowering his voice. In order to be heard over the music, his lips were almost grazing her ear. ‘Ciaran Wallace, right? I did.’

  ‘And?’ She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the dance floor, her expression neutral, as if they weren’t discussing a brutal killing.

  ‘The victim was an ex-Army officer, former Intelligence. Captain John King was his name. I asked around.’

  Guy had been in the Army before joining the Met, she knew, and still maintained certain contacts that could be useful at times like this. ‘Ciaran said he was innocent. Any substance to that?’

  ‘It was rushed through – a lot of pressure to prove it wasn’t the actual IRA who did it, that the peace process was holding. DNA was found at the scene, but it was a bit scrappy – could have been a familial match.’ So that meant Paddy Wallace could have been the killer, pinning it on his brother. ‘Ciaran Wallace lived nearby, he had IRA links but not so much it would seem like he was acting on orders, and the evidence stacked up just enough.’

  ‘He mentioned something else – a hoody at the scene?’

  ‘That’s right. There was a hoody that belonged to Ciaran – his flatmates testified he wore it all the time, and it had his hairs and DNA on it. The officer I spoke to seemed to think it was a bit stupid, though, leaving such an obvious piece of evidence at the scene.’

  ‘They didn’t think it could be a plant?’

  ‘Like I said, it was rushed through. Ciaran was right there, he’d no alibi, it was his jumper . . . He was the ideal fall guy, I suppose, if you were looking for one.’

  Ciaran had not even mentioned his brother as the possible killer. Shielding him, maybe. The more she found out about this family, the less she understood them. ‘That guy King. If he was Army Intelligence, would he have known . . . Edward?’

  It was Guy who’d first found out about Edward, her mother’s handler and lover. Guy was always tactful about it, never probing. ‘I believe they worked together, yes.’

  She pieced it together. Maeve had suggested there was an informer on Paddy’s squad. Sean Conlon was dead, Prontias Ryan was dead, Mark O’Hanlon was dead, Fintan McCabe was dead. What if Paddy had known? What if he’d been chasing that informer all this time? Ryan’s killer had wanted revenge, Gerard said, or information. Or both. Men like Edward and this John King had infiltrated Paddy’s side, paid his friends to inform on him. He would likely want revenge on them as well. ‘Edward’s dead too,’ she said. ‘The PI I hired found out for me. A long time ago now, car bomb. Three years after King was killed.’

  ‘Shame. He’d have been easier to find.’ Than her mother, he meant. She’d be hiding even more deeply now, if she was still alive.

  ‘Guy . . .’ she began. ‘You know how I’m meant to be back to work Tuesday?’

  He smiled. ‘You want longer?’

  ‘It’s just, I’m starting to find things out here. This case of Corry’s, it’s connected. My mother was at that farm, I think. I have leave left over, don’t I?’

  ‘You’d have to let HR know. But there’s no reason why not.’

  Of course there wasn’t, her job was hardly essential. Those graphs could be analysed any time. ‘Thanks. End of the week, maybe?’

  ‘That’s fine with me. As long as you do actually come back.’ It was said lightly, but it did make her wonder. If this couldn’t be solved in a week, she’d have to go back to her new life, let Davey Corcoran go on chasing dead ends. Maybe she’d never find anything.

  The music changed, a faster song, something with an old-time swing rhythm to appease the fifty-somethings in the crowd. Several couples began to waltz in that stately, precise way of older Irish people at weddings. Guy sat back. ‘Anyway, enough of the morbid chat. It’s Avril and Gerard’s day.’ He held out a hand to her. ‘How about it? Duty dance?’

  She stared at his hand. Remembered the feel of his arms around her on the one night they’d spent together, imagined the weight and shift and smell of him. Her body was already moving towards him, without her even realising it. She checked herself. ‘Um . . .’

  His face changed. ‘Just a suggestion. Silly idea, I guess.’

  ‘I just . . .’ They worked together now, and it was good. And there was Tess. She wasn’t about to throw all that away, even if part of her would always want to shut her eyes and drink him in when he was nearby. There was just no point. She knew that now. Besides, there was always Aidan, and the memory of his pale, strained face in the prison, the feel of his mouth on hers for just a moment. The leap of hope after so long – he was ready to fight, to appeal his conviction.

  ‘Making sure Maguire doesn’t stay in Ballyterrin again?’ Corry had come over. She was still wearing her heels, unlike almost every other woman there, and even her hair was still neat, not a strand slipping from its chignon.

  Guy held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Just making sure you don’t poach her back, Helen. How are things?’

  ‘Not bad. We have the Commission all over us, sadly. Thank your lucky stars you don’t have a dead weight like that around your neck in London.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Mind if I have a wee word with Maguire, while I still have her?’ Paula saw Corry had her BlackBerry in her hand, though she spoke easily. Something has happened.

  ‘I should head off,’ said Guy, getting up. ‘I’ve an early flight. I’ll just go and say goodbye to the bride and groom.’

  Corry leaned over to Paula as he left. ‘Don’t say anything now, but there’s been a riot in the prison.’ She saw Paula’s face go white. ‘Not Aidan. He’s fine. But Ciaran Wallace is in hospital.’

  Margaret

  Somehow she made it across the field, slipping in the fresh autumn mud, too afraid to look back. He’d have a gun on him, she was sure. What if it was all a trick? What if any minute now she heard the crack of a bullet? One second. Two. Three. And then there was a gate, and a latch, and she was out onto the road, the tarmac solid under her feet, and a car was screeching to a halt besid
e her. ‘Jesus, watch where you’re going, missus!’ Some old fella in a flat cap. Could be one of them. She had to risk it.

  ‘Please,’ she panted. ‘I need a phone. Will you take me to a phone?’

  Five minutes later she was in his kitchen, which smelled of cows and hadn’t been cleaned in years, while he watched her warily, and she was dialling the number she’d promised to never call. Dimly, she hoped this poor old farmer wouldn’t pay the price for what she’d done. These people, the Paddy Wallaces of the world, would hurt you for a lot less. Not another life she’d ruined with her madness and her rage. The phone rang and rang. Please God, let him answer. Please God. He was her only chance. She had to leave the country right now, tonight. Sean had made that very clear – run, or her family would pay the price. But what if he’d been moved? What if he’d abandoned her, gone back to England already? How could she get out with no money or passport and not even shoes on her feet? She thought of her house, her clothes in the wardrobe, the dishes she’d washed up before they came for her, leaving the kitchen clean and tidy, as if that mattered. She could never go back there again. Her life as she knew it was over.

  There was a click, and she heard his voice, the English tone of it so rare and fine to her ears. ‘Margaret? Is that you?’

  And that was when she broke down and cried. Her voice squeaked, used up and tired, barely making a noise. ‘Come and get me. You need to come and get me away, right now. We have to be on a ferry tonight, or we’ll both be dead.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘You didn’t need to come with me, Maguire, for God’s sake. You can hardly walk.’

  Paula huffed along beside Corry as she strode into Ballyterrin Hospital, an unfortunately familiar location to them both, cursing the blisters her high-heeled shoes had left on her feet even after just a few hours’ wear. ‘I was the one who spoke to him last. He knows more than he’s told us, I’m sure of it. Who attacked him?’