Blood Tide (Paula Maguire 5)

by Claire McGowan

  ‘I know they have a base out there on the island – minerals out of seaweed, is that right?’

  ‘That’s what they say. What they don’t say is what else they’re releasing into the ecosystem.’

  Paula frowned. ‘Meaning?’

  Maeve smiled slightly. This was in her blood – cover-ups, scandals, lies. ‘Well. About a week ago someone sent an anonymous report into my paper. Didn’t want to be named. Blowing the whistle big-time on Enviracorp.’ Maeve’s paper was a rackety operation which was known to be fearless in its reporting. Terrorists, politicians, and big corporations alike were all fair game. It made sense that a whistle-blower would contact them.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, it’s clearly someone who works for the company. Knew all the protocols, had all the data. Seabird deaths. Birth defects in seal pups. Chemicals in the soil. It’s all there, Maguire – that company has messed up in a big way. And whoever wrote the report, they called themselves Puffin the Magic Dragon.’

  Paula still wasn’t following. ‘What’s that got to do with my case?’

  ‘Matt Andrews – he’s an ecologist, yes? Studying puffins?’

  Paula got it. ‘Don’t tell me you think it’s some kind of Erin Brockovich situation, and you’re Julia Roberts?’

  ‘Julia Roberts doesn’t have my winning ways,’ said Maeve, flicking her blonde ponytail. ‘Do you not think it’s worth looking into, though? We get this report in, and then their ecologist goes missing?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. I want to get out there and talk to them anyway.’ For a start, she wanted to know why they’d had such a fit of kindness in sending their boat to help an unknown illegal worker.

  ‘Great. And seeing as I can’t go . . .’ Maeve indicated her leg, which had been injured in a petrol-bomb attack a few years before. ‘Maybe you’d follow up on some of my questions for me?’ She produced a piece of paper and a dazzling smile.

  ‘You’re terrible. You know I can’t do that.’

  ‘Nothing you wouldn’t ask yourself, I’m sure. And you can just tell me whatever you think is ethical.’

  Between her and Corry, Paula was surrounded by manipulative women. ‘I’ll see. Anything you know that we don’t?’

  Maeve smiled wider. ‘Bit of quid pro quo, is it? Fair enough. Well, here’s a thing. Have you pulled Fiona Watts’s medical records?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Paula wasn’t sure how it worked. Did doctors treat themselves or did they go elsewhere? ‘Why?’

  ‘She was at the hospital over here four times in the last few months. Not exactly normal for a healthy young woman, is it?’

  ‘And you know this how?’

  Maeve was as bad as Aidan at digging the dirt. But Paula shouldn’t have thought of him. The needle of pain was always there, a stabbing in her lungs that seemed to take her breath away. Once, not so long ago, they’d all been friends, her and Aidan, Maeve and her wife Sinead. Now Paula was alone again. Maeve said, ‘Never mind how I know. But has no one mentioned her allergies yet?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fiacra drove like the clappers to the ferry, while Paula clutched her seat and tried not to say anything. The rain never seemed to stop, only ease off and then come on again, heavy, stinging drops that ran down your neck and leached into your shoes. ‘Come on, we need to get over and back as quick as possible. I don’t like the look of that sea.’

  ‘Are you going native on me? You said the storm’d moved off.’

  ‘Look.’ Fiacra pointed to the quay, where soapy grey water slopped up between the side of the boat and the harbour wall. ‘Don’t tell me that’s not a bad sign. Anyway, we’ll risk it.’

  ‘Did McElhone mention anything about Fiona’s medical condition?’ They joined the huddled queue to give their money to the ferryman, Paula dragging her silly wheeled case behind her. She noticed a MISSING poster taped onto the Portakabin, the picture of Matt and Fiona on the mountain, all smiles. It struck her there’d been none on the island. Maybe there was no need, when everyone knew each other.

  ‘No.’ Fiacra eyed the roof above them, which was made of flimsy corrugated iron and lifting and groaning in the rising wind. ‘That yoke up there’s not wild stable.’

  ‘Well, apparently she was severely allergic to loads of things. Shellfish. All nuts. Dairy. It was so bad she had to have her own food shipped over, pre-packaged. I guess that explains all the stuff in the kitchen.’

  ‘That’s a bit extreme, no?’

  ‘I don’t know if it was a real problem, or she was just careful – I’ve left a message for her specialist anyway. He was in a case conference when I called.’

  Fiacra shepherded her forward, still looking up at the roof. ‘Is this another one of your famous theories, Maguire? Or did you get it off that hack pal of yours?’

  ‘Um . . . does it matter? It’s easy to check. Think about it. If she was very allergic, there’s a strong chance she ate the wrong thing and had a bad reaction. If she couldn’t get help in time, she’d have died.’

  ‘McElhone never mentioned that?’

  ‘No. Even though they were the best of friends, supposedly. He also didn’t mention Andrea Sharkey trying to kill her baby or Jimmy Reilly cutting his pal’s throat.’

  Fiacra glanced up again. ‘OK, we’ll have to . . . Jesus!’ There was a tearing, cracking sound, like metal scratching on metal, and Paula felt herself flung to one side. She stumbled, righting herself, in time to see the corrugated iron roof detach itself from the Portakabin, sail a few feet across the parking lot, and catch Fiacra right on the ankle, knock him to the ground.

  ‘Bollocks!’ The bellow came out of the depths of him, and then he was down on the wet stone ground, clutching his leg, while the roof skipped lightly off and flattened itself against the boat, passengers scattering. ‘Ah Jesus, that hurt!’

  Paula raced to him. He was on his back in a puddle, and red was already blooming through his jeans. ‘Fiacra! Are you OK?’

  ‘Stand back there, lassie.’ The ferryman had come over, like a bear inside his all-over black anorak and trousers.

  Despite the irritating ‘lassie’, she let him kneel down to Fiacra and roll up the leg of his trousers. Blood was leaking fast from a long gash on his calf. ‘Aye, you’ve a wee scratch there all right, son.’

  A wee scratch? He’d need stitches at least. ‘Should we call an ambulance?’ she shouted, over the wind.

  The ferryman squinted up like she was mad. ‘An amberlance? Sure we’ll stick him in a car and take him down to hospital. Brian. Brian!’ A similarly anorak-clad man detached himself from the queue and came over. ‘Have you a car?’ Brian and the ferryman had a brief discussion about this, of which Paula didn’t catch more than one word. Fiacra was at least still conscious, swearing like a trooper, his face a pale green. All the while the rain drizzled over them, soaking through hair and shoes and clothes.

  ‘You’ll be grand, son.’ The ferryman clapped a large hand on Fiacra’s shoulder, threatening to injure him further. ‘We’ll get you stitched up so.’

  Wincing, Fiacra beckoned Paula in. ‘Listen. You should still go.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I have to come with you to hospital!’

  ‘No, you don’t. I’ll just a need a few stitches or something. I’m hardly going to lose a leg. Get out there and do the interviews. We can’t let this one lapse; they’ve been missing two days already, and this weather . . .’

  ‘But . . .’

  He scowled. ‘Maguire, you’ve spent the last two days trying to convince me something’s going on out there. I’m convinced. So get out there and look into it.’

  He was right. ‘Fine. But I’ll phone once I get there.’

  ‘I’ll come later if I can, or I’ll send someone else. McElhone’s there anyway. Just do the extra interviews and come back as soon a
s you can. It’s not going to be safe out there in a gale.’

  Paula nodded, shoving her hands in the pocket of her coat as Fiacra was helped into Brian’s car – she hoped he wouldn’t develop sepsis from the dirt on the back seat, which looked like a large shaggy dog had been living on it – and lurched off to the hospital. Then the ferryman took the rest of the tickets in a leisurely fashion, and she piled on with the rest and sat in a window seat. Back to Bone Island. In her pocket were two lists. Maeve’s questions, which she hadn’t had time to look at yet, and the list of names from Fiona Watts’s surgery. She’d learned who Andrea Sharkey was, and her sad story, and the tale of Jimmy Reilly the murderer, but still nothing made sense, her mind tossing around theories like the sea tossed the ferry. As her fingers touched the damp crackle of paper, Paula turned her face to the island, looming out of the sea fog like a sleeping monster. Hoping she might find some answers there.

  Once again, Rory McElhone was there to meet her on the windswept pier, deep in his coat. ‘No Quinn?’

  ‘He’s had a wee accident. Storm damage. He’ll be over later today, maybe.’

  ‘Later?’ McElhone pushed his hood back a little, so she could see his freckled face. ‘Don’t know if there’ll be a later. They’re saying this might be the last ferry.’

  ‘It can’t be! I’ve a flight booked for tonight!’

  He shrugged. ‘Look at the sea, Dr Maguire.’ He was right – it was boiling like a witch’s cauldron, waves breaking on the shore. So green at their centre, cresting for one perfect moment, then crashing down.

  ‘It might settle down,’ Paula said stubbornly. ‘They said it was passing over.’

  ‘They get stuff wrong. Trust me, out here we learn to look at the sea, not the weather forecast. Anyway, who do you need to see? Come in the car and tell me. We’ll go to Enviracorp first.’

  She chucked her bag in the boot, moving aside a long coil of rope, and climbed in. In the relative shelter of his draughty, smelly jeep, Paula took out the list. ‘So I know who Andrea Sharkey is – she tried to kill her kid last month. How come you didn’t mention it?’

  Rory started the car, squinting out as the wipers cleared the rain. ‘Oh. Well, I didn’t think you’d need to know about that. Poor woman.’

  ‘I do need to know about it, and anything else strange that’s happened out here. Jimmy Reilly, for example?’

  Rory glanced at the list, changing gear. ‘Well, Jimmy Reilly, I thought you’d know about that already. Him and another islander had a . . . scuffle just after the New Year.’

  ‘Didn’t Jimmy cut the other fella’s throat? Some scuffle. Is that kind of thing normal on this island – a murder, an attempted child-killing, and a disappearance, all in a few months?’

  ‘Life can be hard out here,’ he said, pulling onto the main island road. It wasn’t really an answer. ‘It’s not like in the city. It’s raw, it’s tough. It’s freezing and lashing most of the time and everyone lives on the edge. Half these farms would go under if it wasn’t for the EU subsidies. It’s no surprise if people snap sometimes.’

  ‘But I mean, Christ. Where is Jimmy now? Jail?’

  ‘Psychiatric facility in Tralee. He’d gone a bit – well, he’d lost the head.’

  You’d have to, Paula thought distractedly, to cut someone’s throat. ‘Rory, did you not think to tell us about these other incidents?’

  He shifted gear. ‘I didn’t think they had any bearing on this case, no. I’ve told you I think Fi and Matt have had an accident. The Coastguard will turn up something, I reckon, but I doubt it’ll be good news after all this time. God help them.’

  There was another thing too. ‘You also never mentioned that Fiona had severe food allergies. Is that true?’

  He scrubbed at the window, which had steamed up with their breath. ‘Oh aye, she was a wee bit fussy about what she’d eat. Again, why would that have anything to do with them going missing?’

  ‘Well, someone with serious anaphylaxis can be killed by even a tiny bit of their allergen. Is that why Oona said it was strange to see Fiona in the Spar? She didn’t normally shop there? She ordered her food in?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so.’

  ‘So, there you go. Something had changed. Maybe she ate the wrong thing, and they were out in their boat and she had an attack.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Rory was steadfastly unreadable. He’d pulled up now at a set of heavy grey gates, at least twelve feet high. Paula had to peer out through the rain to see the sign – Enviracorp. A green logo shaped like a plant. ‘Listen, Dr Maguire—’

  ‘Ah, call me Paula, will you—’

  ‘OK. But listen. People on these islands, they’re close-knit. We have a certain way of living and outsiders have to respect that. Matt and Fi, they – well, they came from inner London, right? All those rules and so on, for how you’re supposed to do things. Laws. Reporting. And Fiona’s a doctor – she’s used to being in the right. So she didn’t always know to mind her business. Do you catch my drift?’

  ‘Not really, no. It sounds kind of like you’re saying we shouldn’t investigate.’

  ‘Ah now. I’m not saying that at all. Amn’t I doing my best to help? They’re my friends, I want to find them. I’m just telling you, both of them liked to interfere in the way things are here. But that doesn’t mean you should, too.’

  ‘I don’t follow. And what’s this got to do with Enviracorp?’

  ‘This company, they came out here a few years back. Built the plant. You know how many people they employ? Eighty. Some of those are from outside, yeah, but the rest are locals. There’s admin, packing, transport, the boats they use, and even the work that went into building the place. You may not realise this, Dr Maguire, but it wasn’t so long ago people were talking about abandoning these islands for good. It’s already happened in the Blaskets. No work, and this bloody wind and rain day and night. Life is hard. There’s never a let-up. But Enviracorp might have saved us, and that’s not an exaggeration.’

  ‘So you’re saying I need to be nice to them?’ Paula rolled her eyes; this was indeed turning into an Erin Brockovich situation. At least she had red hair. Julia Roberts could play her in the film.

  ‘No, I’m saying nothing. Just letting you know the context.’

  The context. Huh. She thought about the anonymous report Maeve had mentioned. ‘Was Matt happy, working for them? Any problems there?’

  Rory shrugged, as if to say he was humouring her but she was way off. ‘He said this was his dream job. No word of a lie. He could spend the whole day poking about on the cliffs and on the beaches, and helping make sure the puffins and seals and that were all grand. He was happy as Larry, so he was.’

  ‘But what if they weren’t grand?’

  ‘Well, all I can say is the company went to the trouble of hiring him to check they were doing things right. Why would they do that if they didn’t want the truth?’

  Paula looked out at the plant. A squat white building, out of place on this island with its weather-beaten cottages and dry-stone walls. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Garda. I’ll be tactful, I swear.’ Well, as tactful as she could manage, which usually wasn’t much. In the pocket of her coat, Maeve’s questions seemed to crackle and burn.

  Fiona

  The first time I met Rory it was in Dunorlan’s, a week after we moved. At that point, we were happy. Or Matt was happy, at least. I was pole-axed by the cold, the silence, the fact our phones didn’t work and it took weeks to get the internet put in. That the only entertainment available was this smelly pub. But Matt was just charmed with the place, everything from the incomprehensible sports on TV (what is hurling anyway?) to the dubious stains on the seats. It was ‘trad’ night, meaning a circle of musicians had started up a racket on instruments I didn’t even recognise. Everyone seemed to know the music except us, singing along in drunken sl
urs.

  ‘Isn’t this great!’ Matt was grinning, his face flushed from the turf fire. He loved all this. He was happy, settled, out of the city. I could feel the pressure between us, the pulling away, had eased. I should have been pleased. I was leaning against the bar sipping a bottle of water I’d brought from home – too risky to drink anything from there, I doubted they’d be allergy-compliant. I looked around me twitchily in case anyone was eating nuts nearby; they sold them over the bar, a hanging line of packets that looked as if they’d been there since 1972.

  That’s when I felt a breath on my neck, and some kind of tingle ran up me. Not pleasure exactly. Awareness, really. That someone was watching me. I half-turned to see a ginger-haired man with a wide, freckled face. ‘Like it?’ he said. He was drinking Guinness. I could see the foam on his lip. ‘The music. You like it?’

  ‘Mmm. What’s that big flat drum thing?’

  Matt turned slightly; saw I wasn’t talking to him, turned back to the music. I could hardly see past his broad back in his blue fleece.

  ‘A bodhran,’ the man said. ‘And that’s a tin whistle and a squeeze box and a wooden flute.’

  I sipped at my water. ‘Well. I suppose it’s better than Justin Bieber.’

  I felt him laugh then – more breath on my neck – and we left it at that, and at some point later in the night I was introduced to him as the local policeman – a Garda, they call it here – and we shook hands, and it was all very polite but I knew it was there between us, the awareness, and I knew he’d been watching me all night, and he knew that I knew it too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Hello there! Welcome!’

  Paula and Rory had barely arrived in the reception of Enviracorp – flourishing plants; a rolling video showing slow-mo breaking waves, women lowering themselves into seaweed baths, smiling housewives feeding seaweed to their in-no-way fussy families – when they were tag-teamed by a young man and woman in suits. Everything was so clean, so corporate. A shiny iMac sat on the reception desk, which was unmanned. Only the driving rain outside reminded you you were on a tiny island in the Atlantic.