by Claire Allan
‘On what? We know what we know, Paul. My friend has been murdered. Julie and I have received cryptic notes. Some people might find that threatening. I was just thinking of the girls. Thinking how to protect them.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I think the best thing we can do for them both now is to try to keep things as normal as possible. That means keeping them here.’
‘And you will come home each night?’ I asked.
‘Well, I have a few late meetings, but if it means that much to you …’
He let it trail off as if my friend’s murder was some massive inconvenience to him. As if I was being unreasonable to ask him to commute back and forth while this hung over our heads. I suddenly felt so very tired of it all.
‘Paul, it’s not that it means so much to me. It’s that I need help. I’m grieving and I’m scared, and I don’t know how to be there for the girls and hold myself up at the same time.’ My voice broke and even though I’d been determined that I wouldn’t cry, I felt tears prick at my eyes. ‘And I know we’re broken, by the way. Whatever this is between us.’
He didn’t speak for a moment. He just looked at me, his mouth open just a little as if trying to find something to say that would prove I was wrong. As if he was trying to find the right words of reassurance, but we both knew it had gone beyond that now.
‘You’re being overly dramatic,’ he eventually said, dropping his eye contact for just a second too long.
‘My friend has been murdered and I’m being overly dramatic?’ I struggled to keep the incredulity from my voice.
‘Well no, not about that, but about us being broken. That’s ridiculous.’
I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I knew starting this conversation would take us down a very dangerous road, but how could I not ask?
‘Is it? Is it really? Because I feel it. Every day. We’ve become so distant with each other. You’ve become so distant. So much so … I’ve started to wonder …’ I paused for a moment. ‘Paul, are you having an affair?’ I asked.
He stood up and looked at me, shaking his head. ‘You think what you want to think, Rachel. You always do anyway.’
At that he stormed out, lifting his keys and slamming the front door behind him.
Monday, 11 June
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Warn them’
Murder victim’s chilling last words provoke fear killer will strike again
The woman who held murder victim Clare Taylor’s hand as she died has revealed the 41-year-old’s chilling last words.
Retired nurse, Elizabeth O’Loughlin, who came across the fatally injured Civil Servant while walking her dog, has exclusively revealed to The Chronicle that just before she died, Clare Taylor pleaded with Elizabeth to ‘Warn them’.
Meanwhile, a source close to the investigation has told The Chronicle that a number of people have received floral arrangements with sinister notes attached, which police believe may be some sort of calling card from the murderer.
‘There is no doubt in my mind that more people may be at risk and that whoever is behind this killing is an extremely organised and sick individual. Police are worried and have been trying to stop this information from getting out, fearing it could provoke panic. But people need to know how serious this is,’ the source said.
Mrs O’Loughlin spoke of the ‘horrific’ scene she came across as she was walking her dog in the early hours of last Wednesday: ‘We were walking early in the morning as we usually do, when my dog, Izzy, ran to the side of the road and started yelping. I could see the colour of her jumper first. I did what I could to help her [Ms Taylor], but she was too far gone.
‘I called an ambulance and was trying to reassure her that help was on the way, but she was so badly injured. I tried to keep her warm and was holding her hand when she muttered those words to me.
‘She was gone the next minute. I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since.’
Mrs O’Loughlin, who worked as a theatre nurse at Altnagelvin Area Hospital during the height of the Troubles, said Ms Taylor’s injuries were ‘as horrific as anything she’d seen before’.
‘I’ve seen a lot, especially working in theatre during the Seventies and Eighties, but this was something else. I don’t know how that poor girl survived for any time at all. Whoever did this is nothing short of evil.
‘I don’t understand why the police have kept her final words a secret. People should know they’re in danger. The look on that poor girl’s face. It’ll live with me until the day I die.’
In a cruel twist of fate, sixty-seven-year-old Mrs O’Loughlin didn’t realise as she sat with Ms Taylor that the fatally injured woman had been a class mate of her own daughter, Laura O’Neill, who died unexpectedly in tragic circumstances two years ago.
Laura left behind two young children and a husband.
‘I didn’t make the connection,’ Mrs O’Loughlin said. ‘But it would appear they were in the same year group in St Catherine’s College in the late Eighties and early Nineties. The thought of two women, still so young, losing their lives is awful. I know how Clare’s parents will be feeling right now and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
‘A mother can never get over the loss of a child — and to lose a child in such a violent way is just horrendous.
‘I just want whoever did this to be behind bars where they belong. Until that happens, I can’t see me getting a moment’s peace.’
Of the police investigation, she said: ‘It’s been almost a week and I don’t think they’re any further forward. People are at risk and that’s what worries me. How many more families will have to go through the hell the Taylors are going through?’
A spokesperson for the Police Service of Northern Ireland said the investigation was continuing, with all available resources at the disposal of the inquiry team.
‘This was a brutal murder and one which, rightly, has aroused a deep feeling of revulsion within the community. Police are doing everything in their power to bring the person or persons responsible to justice.
‘Again, we would ask anyone with any information that may lead to the arrest of those responsible to come forward.
‘Police are particularly interested in speaking to the man Ms Taylor was believed to be dating at the time of her death.’
They refused to comment on the delivery of sinister notes and gifts to several parties in the city.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rachel
It was Monday morning and I was strapping Molly into her car seat. Paul had left for Belfast an hour early. We hadn’t spoken to each other since the day before and I’d been glad to see him leave. The tension had been almost suffocating.
I shouted through the open front door of the house to Beth to get a move on before climbing into the driver’s seat to wait for her.
‘Your sister’ll be late for school and Mammy’ll be late for work if she doesn’t get a wriggle on,’ I said to Molly, who’d started wriggling furiously in her seat.
‘I’m wriggling on, Mammy,’ she said. ‘So we can go superfast.’
I smiled at her innocence and how she took me at my word about everything. It used to be like that with Beth, before we had these morning shouting sessions to get her in the car in time. I was just about to get out of the car and walk back to the house to call her again, when I saw Constable King accompanied by DI Bradley walking up the driveway towards the house. They had serious expressions on their faces and my heart sank.
‘Mammy, that police lady’s here again,’ Molly called. ‘Do we have more flowers to give away?’
‘Mrs Walker,’ DI Bradley said, ‘would you mind if we went inside and had a word?’
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked, which seemed like a bit of a stupid question.
‘We really should talk about this inside,’ he said and I nodded.
My heart was thumping as I took Molly from the car just as Beth was walking out of the front door.
‘What’s going on?’
she asked, her face ashen.
‘We’re just here to speak to your mum,’ Constable King said. ‘Why don’t you help me take your little sister in and we can have a chat?’
Beth looked between Constable King and me and then to DI Bradley as if she didn’t know who or what to trust.
‘Want to stay with Mammy,’ Molly said, her bottom lip wobbling.
‘Your mummy’ll be right here,’ Constable King said, getting down to Molly’s level and smiling at her. ‘We’re just going to have a little chat, is that okay? Maybe you could show me your toys?’
At the thought of showing off her My Little Pony collection, Molly flipped from wanting to be at my side to proudly leading Constable King in through the door. Beth was altogether more reticent.
‘Can I stay with you, Mum?’ she asked.
I looked to DI Bradley for guidance.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d really like to talk to your mum alone first. Just for a little bit and then you can come in.’
‘How about you make a pot of tea?’ I said, trying to calm my thumping heart and look in control for Beth.
The truth was, of course, that I didn’t feel in control at all. DI Bradley wouldn’t be coming to my house unless something had happened.
‘What about school?’ Beth asked.
‘We’ll talk about that in a bit,’ I said, adding to DI Bradley that I’d really need to phone my work if I was going to be late.
As Beth reluctantly headed in the direction of the kitchen, DI Bradley told me that it might be better to tell them I’d need the day off.
My stomach lurched so far that I was sure I’d throw up the tea and toast I’d had for breakfast just half an hour before. I felt myself start to shake and I stumbled as I tried to sit down.
‘Has something else happened?’ I asked. ‘Has someone else been hurt? Have you caught him?’
‘I’ll assume you’ve not seen The Chronicle this morning?’ he said.
I shook my head. I didn’t routinely buy it and to be honest, after what had been printed on Saturday – all those gory details – I’d decided that I’d make a point of never buying it again.
‘I’m afraid some information sensitive to the investigation has got into the public arena,’ he said. ‘This information is relevant to you and also to your friend, Julie Cosgrove.’
‘Is it about the flowers?’ I asked.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘It is related to that, but there’s more. Does the name Laura O’Loughlin mean anything to you?’
It rang a bell, but I couldn’t place her immediately.
‘It’s familiar, but I’m not sure I know her and I definitely don’t know her well.’
‘Well, it would have been a long time ago. When you were at school.’
An image of a skinny, tall girl with long dark hair, which she always wore hung around her face as if she were trying to hide herself, came to mind. She kept herself to herself. She never really showed an interest in joining in with the rest of us, always happier to have her head stuck in a book. Bookworm – that’s what we called her. If she was who I was thinking of.
‘She wouldn’t have been in my friendship group, but I think we shared a few classes,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen her since school. Is she okay? Has something happened to her?’
DI Bradley coughed just as Beth walked in with a tray laden with mugs, milk, sugar and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Constable King followed her in, nodding to her colleague.
‘Beth, would you mind keeping your sister occupied for a bit? Just while I speak to your mum,’ she said.
I saw the reluctance to leave in my daughter’s eyes but she turned and left anyway. Constable King sat down opposite me. I thought about lifting a mug, my mouth had gone dry, but I was afraid my hands would shake too much and I’d spill it.
‘Laura died two years ago,’ DI Bradley said. ‘She was married, called Laura O’Neill then, and she left two young children. A son and a daughter.’
Although she meant very little to me, my heart sank at the news. She was too young, just like Clare. And those poor children, left without a mother. But I still didn’t see what relevance it had to Clare’s case. Surely if she’d been murdered, it would have made the headlines back then? I’d have heard about it.
‘What happened to her?’ I asked. ‘Was she ill? I don’t understand what this has to do with anything.’
He shook his head, rubbed the stubble on his chin. He looked tired; I imagined the investigation was taking its toll on him.
‘Laura took her own life. She was a troubled individual, it seems.’
I was still confused. Tried to cast my mind back more than twenty years to remember her. Had she left after fifth form? Gone on elsewhere? I couldn’t think straight.
‘Five deliveries were made of the forget-me-nots wrapped in black ribbon on Saturday. As you know, one was left at the roadside where Clare was found. You received one, as did Julie Cosgrove and the Taylors. Both yours and Julie’s had rhymes, which we can link back to your schooldays. Two others, those left at the roadside and those received by the Taylor family, contained cryptic messages, too.’ He took a breath. ‘The fifth delivery was made to a Mrs Elizabeth O’Loughlin, Laura’s mother. It contained a note referencing her daughter.’
‘I don’t know Mrs O’Loughlin,’ I said. ‘I mean, this seems strange, but I don’t know where you’re going with this.’
‘Mrs O’Loughlin lives on Coney Road. It was she who found Clare last week and was with her in her last minutes.’
My blood ran cold.
‘Couldn’t this all be a coincidence?’ I asked, grasping at straws that were well beyond my reach.
He shook his head. ‘We don’t think so, unfortunately. We had asked Mrs O’Loughlin not to reveal her conversation with Clare for operational reasons. Details of that exchange have now, sadly, been printed in this morning’s Chronicle. Given the delivery of the flowers and other information we’ve been able to gather about Clare’s last days and weeks, we believe we have a duty to advise you that we believe her last words may have referred to you and Mrs Cosgrove.’
He paused, giving me a moment to take in what he was saying.
‘We understand this’ll be extremely distressing for you, so we’re here this morning to speak to you about increased security measures. At this time, some of my fellow officers are also with Mrs Cosgrove and she’s being given the same information. We’ll be doing all we can to ensure that you and your family remain safe while we work to get this individual into police custody once and for all.’
‘But what’s changed, between Saturday and today? You presumably had all the information that’s just been published anyway. You didn’t think we were targets then, did you?’ I asked, pressing my fingernails into the palms of my hands to try to distract myself from the panic building inside me.
I watched as Constable King glanced at the ground. DI Bradley cleared his throat.
‘It’s more that we fear the coverage will now embolden whoever did this. They may feel we’re on to them and that may make them panicky, or braver. Neither is good. Given what was written in each of the cards on Saturday, and the information we now have about the shared link between Clare, Julie, Laura O’Neill and you, we don’t think it wise to take any chances with your safety.’
I felt a cold sweat break on the back of my neck, reached up to rub it, to try to ease the tension in my muscles.
‘Why? What did Mrs O’Loughlin’s card say?’
‘I’m not at liberty to reveal that at the moment,’ he said, blushing. ‘But we really do need you to think about any links, any interactions you may have had with Laura; especially in later years.’
‘But I don’t think I saw her at all after we left school. I don’t think I’d have recognised her anyway if I did. There were two hundred girls in our year group. I don’t mean to sound dismissive, but she meant nothing to me. We weren’t friends. We weren’t really anything. I barely remember her.’
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My head hurt as I tried to bring an image of her into focus. It was so long ago. A different lifetime and certainly a different me.
DI Bradley nodded. I wasn’t sure he believed me and that left me feeling uneasy.
‘What were Clare’s last words?’ I asked him. ‘Seeing as they’re out in the public domain anyway, you might as well tell me.’
‘“Warn them”,’ he replied and I felt my desire to run away grow stronger.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elizabeth
The paper sat in front of me. My words, stark, in black and white. A picture of my beautiful daughter. Ingrid Devlin had at least been true to her word. She hadn’t gone into any salacious detail about Laura’s death – just that she’d died unexpectedly at a tragically young age.
I knew it was journalist code for ‘killed herself’ – everyone reading would know that – but at least it wasn’t spelled out. My fears that there’d be lurid details of how she’d done it were assuaged, for now at least.
Had I made DI Bradley angry with me? I didn’t know, and part of me felt guilty for talking to the press, but what choice had I been given? I’d done this to protect my grandchildren. To protect my son-in-law. To protect me, if I was honest. Not that I felt ashamed of how she died. Ashamed maybe that I hadn’t seen how bad she was feeling. That I hadn’t seen how much she needed me.
No, that wasn’t shame. That was guilt. People would judge me for letting her slip through the net. They’d blame me. It had already happened before.
I wasn’t surprised when the police knocked at my door later. Nor was I surprised that my phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and that journalist after journalist walked up through the farmyard and knocked on my door.
‘I have nothing more to say on the matter,’ I told them all. Each eager reporter with their phone set to record. ‘Any statement from now on will be issued through Ingrid Devlin at The Chronicle and you can contact her if you have any further queries.’