Copyright © 2015 Claire McGowan
The right of Claire McGowan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2015
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 0441 7
Cover images © Dougal Waters/Getty Images (figure) & Aardvark/Alamy (landscape). Cover design by Craig Fraser
Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
About the Book
Also By Claire McGowan
Praise
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Author’s Note
‘Norn Irish’ Glossary
About the Author
Claire McGowan grew up in a small village in Northern Ireland. After achieving a degree in English and French from Oxford University, and time spent living in China and France, she moved to London where she works in the charity sector and also teaches creative writing. THE SILENT DEAD is her fourth novel and the third in the Paula Maguire series.
About the Book
Victim: Male. Mid-thirties. 5’7”.
Cause of death: Hanging. Initial impression – murder.
ID: Mickey Doyle. Suspected terrorist and member of the Mayday Five.
The officers at the crime scene know exactly who the victim is.
Doyle was one of five suspected bombers who caused the deaths of sixteen people.
The remaining four are also missing and when a second body is found, decapitated, it’s clear they are being killed by the same methods their victims suffered.
Forensic psychologist Paula Maguire is assigned the case but she is up against the clock – both personally and professionally.
With moral boundaries blurred between victim and perpetrator, will Paula be able to find those responsible? After all, even killers deserve justice, don’t they?
By Claire McGowan and available from Headline
The Fall
The Lost
The Dead Ground
The Silent Dead
Controlled Explosions (a digital short story)
Praise
Praise for The Dead Ground:
‘Fast paced and engaging’ Evening Echo
‘Enthralling . . . evoked wonderfully’ Sunday Mirror
‘Claire’s novels deal with all sorts of modern moral issues’ Belfast Telegraph (online)
‘Claire McGowan is a very good thriller writer . . . It’s a gripping and gory read and shows McGowan to be a thriller writer of exceptional talent’ Irish Independent
‘Harrowing’ Image (magazine)
Praise for The Lost:
‘This thriller is fresh and accessible without ever compromising on grit or suspense’ Erin Kelly, author of The Poison Tree
‘A brilliant portrait of a fractured society and a mystery full of heart stopping twists. Compelling, clever and entertaining’ Jane Caey, author of The Burning
‘A keeps-you-guessing mystery’ Alex Marwood, author of The Missing Girls
‘A gripping yarn you will be unable to put down’ Sun
‘A clever and pacey thriller’ Sunday Mirror
‘McGowan’s style is pacey and direct, and the twists come thick and fast’ Declan Burke, Irish Times
‘Engaging and gripping’ Northern Echo
‘Taut plotting and assured writing . . . a highly satisfying thriller’ Good Housekeeping
‘Claire McGowan is a writer at the top of her game’ www.lisareadsbooks.blogspot.co.uk
‘An exciting, enthralling and tense read’ www.thelittlereaderlibrary.blogspot.co.uk
Praise for The Fall:
‘There is nothing not to like . . . A compelling and flawless thriller’ S.J. Bolton
‘A cool and twisted debut’ Daily Mirror
‘She knows how to tell a cracking story. She will go far’ Daily Mail
‘Chills you to the bone’ Daily Telegraph
‘The characters are finely drawn, and it’s concern for them, rather than for whodunnit, that proides the page-turning impetus in this promising debut’ Guardian
‘A brilliant crime novel . . . worthy of its label – “gripping”’ Company Magazine
‘Hugely impressive. The crime will keep you reading, but it’s the characters you’ll remember’ Irish Examiner
‘It’s a clever, beautifully detailed exploration of the fragility of daily life . . . The genius of this story is that it could happen to any of us, and that’s why it hits so hard’ Elizabeth Haynes
‘A writer of great talent’ Michael Ridpath
‘Immediate, engaging and relevant, The Fall hits the ground running and doesn’t stop. I readit in one breathless sitting’ Erin Kelly
‘Highly original and compelling’ Mark Edwards
‘Sharp, honest and emotionally gripping’ Tom Harper
‘Stunning. Beautifully written, totally convincing and full of character. Really, really good’ Steve Mosby
‘An amazing first book’ www.promotingcrime.blogspot.co.uk
‘Intelligent and absorbing . . . Highly commendable’ www.milorambles.com
To Sarah and Angela
Acknowledgements
This book would be substantially different (or possibly flung into the sea by now) without the insightful, comprehensive, and generous feedback I received from my agent Diana Beaumont and my editor at Headline Vicki Mellor. Thank you both so much for all your time and energy. Thanks also to everyone else at Headline, especially Caitlin Raynor and Jo Liddiard.
Thank you to my parents and sister, brothers, and brother-in-law, who put up with me doing a final edit at home, staring at the laptop and muttering to myself, and forgetting to use coasters on the G
ood Table.
Thanks to Debs and Bob for hosting me at Retreats 4 You in Devon, where I was able to nail down a first draft thanks to all the peace and quiet and wine delivered to my desk.
Thanks to the two lovely bookshop-owning Davids – David Torrans at No Alibis Belfast for all his support, and David Headley at Goldsboro Books London, scene of many a party.
Thank you to Kate Pearson for the loan of her lovely Edinburgh flat.
Thanks to Jamie Drew for some fantastic headshots (and lunch).
Thanks to City University, especially Jonathan Myerson, for offering me gainful employment, and everyone who’s hosted me for a talk or teaching session, especially Arvon Lumb Bank, Guardian Masterclasses, the Belfast Book Festival/John Hewitt Society, and the Derry Verbal Arts Festival. Thanks also to Brian McGilloway and William Ryan for generously including me in events.
Thank you to Dr Laurance Donnelly, forensic geologist and police search adviser, for geology help (any mistakes all my fault of course!)
Thanks as ever to the crime fiction world and all the lovely people in it. Jake Kerridge and Stav Sherez for gruesome lunchtime chat. Katherine Armstrong, Anya Lipska, and Jamie-Lee Nardone for drinks. Theakston’s Old Peculier festival in Harrogate and Crimefest for top-notch book festivals. Imogen Robertson and Ned for dinners and wine. Tom Harper for Scooby Doo inspiration and whiskey. Kevin Wignall for all the fine dining. Thanks to Stuart Neville and Adrian McKinty for including my story ‘Rosie Grant’s Finger’ in the anthology Belfast Noir.
To my non-criminal friends, for all your support during what has been something of a turbulent writing period – I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks to Gareth Rubin for help with the title and to everyone who read early drafts, offered me house room, and generally helped me along, especially Alex, Sarah, Angela, Kerry, Kelly, Beth, Hannah, Isabelle, Jillian, Sara, Freya, and Jo.
Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read or review my previous books – it really does mean the world to the writer plodding away on their own. If you have any thoughts on this one, you can contact me at www.ink-stains.co.uk or on Twitter at @inkstainsclaire (or find me on Facebook).
Prologue
I’m dead.
I don’t mind. I want to be dead. Nothing could be worse than staying alive, not like this. But all the same I’m running away.
I can feel the blood between my toes, my feet slipping on the roots and branches. They’ve taken my clothes from me. You’re dead, they say. No one will miss you. You’re evil. The world is better off without you.
And I know they’re right, but I’m running anyway.
I know they will catch me – I’m lost, no idea where I’m going, and after what they’ve done I can hardly stand, but I’m running. In the dark the forest is full of eyes, and branches claw my face like scratching hands. Overhead, the moon is as white as a face with the flesh stripped back.
My own warm blood is splashing on my skin. My heart is bursting in my chest. You have no heart, they told me. You are dead inside. You are scum. Yes, yes, it’s all true, but, but, but. I can hear them nearby in the trees. The high voice of the wee girl. Saying my name. I know they’ll find me, panting and stumbling, but I can’t stop. I am so afraid. I’ve never been afraid like this.
The noise stops. The moon lights up the path ahead, empty, and I run, and as I run I’m thinking one thing: my baby. Oh my baby.
Chapter One
Ballyterrin, Northern Ireland,
April 2011
‘We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.’
Paula’s lilies were wilting already. She shifted on her swollen feet. The bulk of her belly meant the only way she could comfortably stand was with one hip jutted out, leaning on it, and she didn’t think such an insolent pose would cut it before the altar. She’d already seen the priest’s eye travelling over her stomach and then pointedly not looking at it. Catholics – they were good at pretending things that did exist didn’t. And vice versa.
She stared straight ahead, her legs buckling under the cool satin of her dress, glad that its length hid her puffy ankles and enormous underwear. What am I doing here? The church smelled of incense, and cold stone, and the slightly rotting sweetness of the flowers.
Across from her, Aidan was also staring rigidly ahead. He was tricked out in a new grey suit, clasping his hands in front of his groin in that position men adopted during moments of gravitas or penalty kick-offs. She wondered if, like her, he was having to stop himself mouthing the too-familiar words of the Mass. Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy) Christ have mercy (Christ have mercy) Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy). The phrases found a treacherous echo in her bones. She heard Aidan cough, once, in the still, heavy air of the church. On that warm spring day, it was full of the ghosts of candles, and dust, and long unopened hymn books. What are we doing here? She wanted to catch his eye, but was afraid to.
‘Do you have the rings?’ Aidan stepped forward and deposited them on the Bible, two hoops of gold, one large, one tiny. Then he moved back into position, eyes downcast.
‘Repeat after me,’ said the priest. The bride and groom arranged themselves in suitable positions. ‘Patrick Joseph Maguire, will you take Patricia Ann O’Hara to be your lawful wedded wife, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, in sickness and in health, to have and to hold from this day forth, forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?’
Paula’s father – PJ – spoke in a rusty voice. ‘I will.’ His bad leg was stiff but he stood up straight in a new black suit bought for the occasion. Paula suspected he was hating it all, but he’d have done anything for the woman standing next to him in an ivory suit from Debenhams, several nests’ worth of dyed feathers attached to her head.
Aidan’s mother, Pat O’Hara, said her vows quick and earnest: ‘I will.’
They would. They were both so sure. How could you be sure? Paula stole a glance at Aidan – what was he now, her stepbrother? – and saw his dark eyes were wreathed in shadows, his hair tinged with grey over the ears. She’d never noticed that before. He saw her watching, and both of them looked away, her belly as big and unavoidable as the lies between them. Oh Aidan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Then it was done, and Pat and PJ were wed, and they trooped down the aisle like a bride and groom in their twenties. Aidan grasped Paula’s arm without meeting her eyes, escorting her out, because that was what you did. His hand was cool on her hot, fat skin. Everything about her was squeezed. The ridiculous lilac bridesmaid dress, strained over newly discovered breasts, was like a cocoon she might burst from at any moment. Aidan could barely look at her. She didn’t blame him.
They were out now, and posing for photos taken by one of Pat’s friends, who couldn’t work the camera, and Pat was all smiles and tears, kissing Paula with her five layers of lipstick. She’d had her colours done for the wedding, plunging into manicures and spa days and shopping trips like a first-time bride. Paula had tried to play along, because she loved Pat, but it was hard to be excited about a wedding when its very occurrence hinged on the fact that your mother, missing for seventeen years, had been declared legally dead. And maybe she was dead – dead as Pat’s husband, who’d been shot by the IRA in 1986. But maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t.
Maybe. When you got married you did not say ‘maybe’. You said ‘I will’, you put your feet on the good, solid stone of certainty. ‘Maybe’ was like shifting sand. She wished so much there was something, anything she could be sure of. Whether her mother was alive or dead, for a start.
It was warm outside, and the sunlight played around the old church, which was painted in crumbly lemon-yellow. Paula had made her First Communion here, and they’d also chosen it for her mother’s memorial service back in the nineties – no funeral, of course; nothing to bury. Now Pat’s friends had gathered to throw confetti, twittering women in their Sunday best suits, lilacs and yellows and blues covering crêpey arms, hats pressed out of boxes and set atop tig
ht-curled hair. Many greeted Paula – hello, pet – some kissing her cheek, though she barely recognised them. She knew they’d be looking at her vast pregnant belly and bare left hand, and speculating about her and Aidan and what might be going on there. He’d been her boyfriend when she was eighteen and he was nineteen – was he the father of the wean? Honestly, she’d have told them if she knew.
Suddenly it was too much, all of them there, and the kiss of the sun on gravestones, and the sight of a small plaque in the vestibule bearing the name Margaret Maguire. In loving memory.
‘Maguire?’ It was Aidan, speaking his first words to her all day. In months, in fact, since she’d told him about the baby. She realised she was sagging gently down to the steps, like a deflating balloon. ‘You all right?’
‘It’s just the heat – the sun . . .’ It wasn’t especially warm – it never was in Ireland, of course – but her body seemed to produce its own waves of heat now.
‘Sit down.’ Aidan led her inside to the incense-scented dark. She slipped off her tight lilac shoes and the stone floor was cool under her feet.
‘Thanks. I’m OK.’
Aidan sat beside her in a pew, leaning forward so his tie flopped between his knees. ‘Weird day.’
‘It is that.’
He looked at her, and the old ache came back. ‘Are you feeling well? I mean in general.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m like a beached whale. Still, won’t be long now.’
Aidan said, ‘We need to talk. I know that. I’ve been meaning to see you.’
‘I’ve been here.’
‘I just couldn’t . . . you know, after you told me it was either me or him. Christ, it was such a shock. It was like you’d done it on purpose almost. To punish me.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. I got pregnant and I’m the size of a cow just so I could make you feel bad. You’re totally right.’
The Silent Dead (Paula Maguire 3) Page 1