The Silent Dead (Paula Maguire 3)

by McGowan, Claire

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Paula started walking her again. The kitchen, the living room, the hall. The kitchen, the living room, the hall. Still the crying didn’t stop. Her jumper was soon soaked in baby snot and tears, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror – whey-faced, grubby, her hair in knots. ‘Is that why you’re sad, Mags? Because Mummy looks so awful?’

  Mummy. That was her now. It was hard to believe. She was still pacing semi-dementedly when the doorbell rang. It was five a.m., who could that be? She rushed into the hall, hoping for deliverance of some kind. On the doorstep was Helen Corry, turned out despite the early hour in a swanky trench coat and trouser suit.

  Corry winced at the wailing. ‘What are you doing to her?’

  Paula wiped the sweaty hair out of her eyes. ‘I really don’t know. She’s been crying for hours, I think I’ve gone deaf in one ear.’

  ‘Give her here.’ Corry stepped into the hall, taking the baby and cradling her over one arm in a rocking movement. Maggie’s cries swelled like a passing siren and then subsided into sad hiccups.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘Years of being up with crying weans, then called out to crime scenes at six a.m.’

  Paula collapsed back on the sofa. ‘I’m not sure I can do this on my own.’

  ‘Course you can. I’d a husband and he was next to useless. Never heard them crying, apparently, even when I took them into the bed and held them beside his ear.’

  ‘How did you know to come?’

  ‘I’d a feeling you might be up.’ Corry looked at her kindly. ‘It’s tough the first few months.’

  ‘Months?’

  ‘Yes. But you’ll get through it. Anyway – I’m here with something that’ll cheer you up.’

  ‘What’s that, a full-time nanny?’ Either that or Aidan’s head on a plate.

  ‘Gerard’s got some anonymous tip-off about what happened to Kenny. You realise I mean cheer you up in that ghoulish sort of way you like.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Word is there’s been some kind of power shift in the local IRA leadership and someone wants to talk.’

  Paula’s mind was racing, trying to put the pieces together, but then she sighed. ‘I’m not supposed to be working. What’s the point in telling me?’

  ‘I know you’re not, but how would you like a few hours in the office? If I know you, it’s doing your head in that you didn’t get to clear your desk.’ She nursed the now-sleeping baby. ‘I’ll mind this wee one while you nip out.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s OK?’

  ‘Call it one of those Keeping in Touch days or something. We have to stick together, us working mothers,’ said Corry, with a heavy tang of irony. Paula could have hugged her.

  Gerard was in the car park as she pulled up. He was zipped up against the morning chill in a waterproof jacket. ‘You’re here, Maguire?’

  ‘Just pretend I’m not. What’s going on?’

  ‘Dunno. Apparently someone knows what happened to Kenny and they’re prepared to talk.’

  ‘Where are you off to now? You’re not going to see them on your own?’

  ‘Er, no, I’m not daft. I want to talk to my boys some more. I’ve an idea about something I want to check.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t want to say as I might be wrong. But it would explain a lot about why we’ve not been able to get any solid evidence.’

  Paula looked at him suspiciously. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘There’s a pub on the Knockvarragh estate where I sometimes meet them,’ he said, naming the dodgiest Republican enclave in the town.

  ‘You better not take the jeep then,’ said Paula.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He paused. ‘How’s your, eh, baby and all that?’

  ‘Baby and all that is fine. Good luck with your terrorists.’

  ‘Republican soldiers, they prefer.’ Gerard went, beeping open the Skoda; no doubt he imagined he was in some Ballyterrin-set version of The Wire. ‘Catch you later.’

  In the office, all was quiet. It was too early for Avril or Fiacra to be in, and Bob was still on suspension anyway.

  Paula sat at her desk but didn’t turn her computer on. Her mind was full to bursting. First there was the four dead terrorists and the other missing two. Was it possible the leak was somewhere in their small team, so close-knit until recently? Then there was everything she’d found out about her mother. Sean Conlon said he didn’t know if they’d taken her mother or not, but they’d certainly planned to. Did that mean she was dead after all? Mrs Flynn had known something. She’d put it in her statement, and Bob had suppressed it, not to cover himself as she’d imagined, but to spare her and her father. What was the piece of knowledge it contained, that lost slip of paper? Paula sat on, and found she was thinking of the man. The man in the hat. The one her mother had been talking to at the back door that day. Something told her that to find out about him would be the trailing thread that unravelled the whole rotten fabric of the past.

  Sighing, she looked around her at the empty office, dust hanging in a shaft of morning light. So many files, new cases, old cases, the long-lost and the recently gone. The unit had been set up to try to find these people, bring home the ones who’d been missing for years, either alive or dead, and look for the ones who’d just disappeared before they too became lost for good. But had they done it? Four of the Mayday Five were dead and the unit hadn’t managed to find anything. For the first time Paula found herself wondering what was the point of it all. Why hadn’t she stayed in London, with her safe, controlled life there, where every case wasn’t as close to her as her own pumping blood?

  She sighed again. Reaching for her desk phone, she dialled a number and waited for the sound of his voice, rich and full. She said, ‘Hello. This is Paula Maguire here.’

  ‘Dr Maguire, back to work so soon?’ Lorcan Finney sounded guarded.

  ‘Not really. Just sorting out a few things. Sorry, have I caught you at a bad time? I know it’s early.’ She could hear the sounds of traffic behind him.

  ‘It’s fine. Just out for my morning run.’

  ‘Right. I was wondering, did you run that writing sample?’

  ‘Oh yes, the one you officially didn’t give me. I did, but there was no match with the notes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  She’d been so sure. ‘Well, OK, thank you anyway.’

  ‘How’s your wee one?’

  ‘Oh, she’s grand, yes.’ She wasn’t comfortable talking about this with him. ‘So there’s no more news from forensics?’

  ‘Nothing. The note from Ni Chonnaill’s mouth said LEGITIMATE TARGET, as you know. That’s a pretty standard phrase, so I don’t think we’ll get much from it.’

  ‘Same paper and everything again? Same writing?’

  ‘Same.’

  She sighed. ‘Well. I’m not supposed to be working anyway. Thanks for looking at it.’

  ‘Take care, Dr Maguire.’

  She was pottering about collecting case files, enjoying the silence of the office with the morning sun slanting in, when the main phone began to ring. She picked it up. ‘MPRU?’

  ‘Paula! Is anyone there with you?’ Fiacra was on the line, shouting. Fear in his voice.

  ‘No, it’s just me. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Call the hospital. Now. Tell them we’re coming. Then get outside, I’m coming to pick you up.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ She was reaching for her mobile.

  ‘Gerard’s been shot. His meeting, it was a set-up. We need to go and get him. I’m almost there.’

  ‘Oh . . . OK.’ Paula rang the hospital, giving the details as quickly as she could. Her hands shook as she put her coat on, went outside. She found herself locking up the door. For God’s sake, Maguire, leave it. Fiacra’s Fiesta was already screeching into the car park, engine chugging.

  Fiacra wound the window down. ‘Get in!’

  Paula had barely shut the door wh
en Fiacra sped off, throwing her against the dashboard. She leant awkwardly on the tape deck. ‘Christ! Where are we going?’

  ‘To the estate. He was on his way to the pub. Someone took a shot at him.’ Fiacra was cutting up the morning traffic.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was on the phone with him. Heard it all happen. He knew it was bad.’ The estate was only minutes away and Fiacra rounded into it, turning the wheel wildly. ‘He said he was running down the alley by the pub . . . shit.’

  There, slumped on the tarmac in a weed-grown alley between two council homes, was a familiar body. Gerard’s eyes were shut and he wasn’t moving, except for the blood seeping out from under him. As they drew up there was a screech of tyres, and a white van accelerated out of a side road, from which every resident seemed to have vanished.

  ‘Get down!’ Fiacra was grabbing for her head, pushing her down. ‘Shit. I think that was them. That was the shooter.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’ She’d had a momentary glimpse of a dirty white van, no number plate, the windows tinted out.

  Fiacra was scrabbling at the door. ‘No. Shit. Come on, we have to grab him and get out of here. It’s not safe.’

  Kira

  ‘Did you ever love anyone?’ she asked.

  From the corner, Lily called out – ’Don’t talk to him, Kira.’ She was always on her phone when it was their turn to mind the man, her hair falling over her face in a big shiny curtain. Kira ignored her. They didn’t tell Lily everything because she didn’t understand. They didn’t even tell her on the day it all happened, because she couldn’t be trusted. The man was in his cage in the corner, head slumped onto his chest. He never said much.

  Kira asked again. ‘You must have. You have kids? I saw pictures.’

  ‘My daughter,’ he said, his voice rusty. ‘She doesn’t see me much.’

  ‘But you must have loved someone – a woman? Your wife? I mean, loved someone so much that when you lost them you thought you might die without them?’

  He said nothing for a long time, so she didn’t think he was going to answer. Sometimes he just didn’t, not for hours. She sat back against the wall, looking around the little hut. Lily was in her usual spot in the old green armchair Dominic had brought up there, her long legs propped on the windowsill. Kira thought she did this so men would see, even though the only man there was the man. She just couldn’t help it.

  After a while he coughed – he coughed a lot, usually horrible ones full of phlegm that made her want to cover her ears. ‘Her,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I loved her. Catherine.’

  The woman? Kira stared at him but his head was still bowed, hands laced together over his knees. He looked broken. Kira was remembering things she’d told herself she wasn’t going to think about ever – the moonlight catching the woman’s blonde hair, the sound of her crashing about in the trees and the way she was crying. What she’d said when they’d caught her and it was time for the end – please, my baby. My baby.

  And how she’d called out to the man – Martin, please don’t let them—

  He hadn’t even looked at her. He hadn’t done a thing to save her; instead he’d given her up to them. Kira couldn’t understand it. ‘You loved her?’

  ‘Aye. We met because our . . . what we believed in. She was with another man, and she’d a child already, but she wanted me. She was younger, too young, but she was beautiful, so beautiful, and I . . . I was weak. I loved her. Now she’s dead because of it.’

  He was talking to her like an adult, or more likely, as if he’d forgotten she was there. Rambling. His eyes didn’t seem to be looking at anything. ‘We didn’t mean it,’ he said, staring past her. ‘It was never meant to go like that . . . All those people, dead. Blood in the street. Those wee kids. It wasn’t meant to be like that.’

  Kira leaned in towards his bars, so she could smell the stink of his bucket in the corner. ‘Why did you do it?’ she whispered. ‘How could you?’

  Lily turned her head, annoyed, but was distracted by her phone. Probably texting Dominic or looking at one of her stupid fashion blogs. He said nothing, and Kira was almost glad, because she didn’t really know what it was she was asking.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Where are you hurt?’ Blood was bubbling up from under Gerard’s white T-shirt. Her hands were already covered in it from where they’d dragged him into the car. Shit. She took off her scarf with the clock pattern, her favourite, and pressed it firmly against his stomach. His heart was racing so fast it was almost a blur, but at least that meant he was still alive. ‘What happened? Why did they shoot him?’

  ‘Total fuck-up,’ said Fiacra succinctly, running a red light on Market Street. ‘He went to meet the tipster on his own. I’d guess it’s the local Ra, and they didn’t take too kindly to him snooping around. He was being set up with this meet.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. I told him not to! He went on his own to meet an anonymous source?’

  ‘Aye, he’s an eejit. Help him, will you? He’s losing fuckloads of blood.’

  In the back, Gerard was filling most of the car seat. A smell of hot blood. His face was clammy and his breath came in pants.

  ‘S’OK,’ muttered Gerard. ‘S’not too bad.’

  Fiacra said, ‘You’ve been shot, you fecking eejit.’

  ‘You’re OK. You’ll be OK.’ Knowing this was a stupid thing to say, Paula tried not to look out the front, pressing down as hard as she could on Gerard. With the size of him and her own remaining baby weight they were pressed up so close she could smell the frightened sweat under his Lynx. ‘You’ll be OK.’ She felt his fingers on her wrist. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mum,’ he breathed. ‘Call my ma. Tell her.’

  ‘I will, of course, but you’re fine, you’ll be fine. Listen, Gerard, do you know why this happened? Did you find out something? What was your hunch?’

  His eyes were fluttering. ‘Knew he wasn’t right . . .’

  ‘Who? Gerard, tell us!’

  It was too late. He was slumped over, unconscious from blood loss. Most of it seemed to be over Paula’s clothes and hands. She could hear the panic in her voice. ‘For God’s sake, drive!’

  ‘We’re there.’

  Though she’d always hated Ballyterrin General Hospital, Paula had never been happier to see the blue door of A & E come into view. Fiacra slammed on the brakes, halfway up the pavement, and Paula was thrown forward again. A fresh spurt of Gerard’s blood pumped through the scarf and over her wrist. Then doctors were running up with a stretcher, and Saoirse was one of them, and they were taking Gerard off her and removing the scarf, bringing clean bandages.

  ‘We’ve got him from here.’ Attaching an IV, Saoirse threw Paula a brisk backwards look. ‘You should sit down. You look like you’re in shock.’

  ‘Come on.’ Fiacra was taking her by the shoulders and moving her into the waiting room. ‘We have to leave him now. They know what they’re doing.’

  ‘My hands.’ She held them up, like Lady Macbeth. The cuffs of her grey jumper were sodden, and blood stuck in her nails and skin. On the front of her top, it made what looked like an abstract painting. ‘It’ll not come off,’ said Fiacra grimly. ‘Hope it wasn’t your favourite.’

  She sank down on a plastic chair, the legs crumpling under her. Fiacra remained standing. He rubbed his face and Paula saw the front of his shirt was also bathed in blood. ‘How did you know he was there?’

  ‘He rang me. The van was following him – he was in some alley on the estate and he knew he wouldn’t get away. He said he’d try to protect his head and run to the main road and I was to get him and go straight to hospital. He knew no one on the estate would call him an ambulance.’

  ‘So you just went?’

  ‘Course I did. I’m not – well, I know what you think of me. But you don’t know everything that went on, OK? You don’t know what I’ve been going through with my family and all that business with – Avril. You kn
ow – nothing.’ His voice went high and cracked.

  Paula let him finish. Then she stood up and put her arms awkwardly round him, smearing blood over his blue work shirt. She was ashamed she’d ever wondered about him – he was just a boy, really, hurting and confused. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘He’ll be all right. You saved his life.’

  Fiacra rubbed his eyes with screwed up fists. He pulled away. ‘Thanks. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  It was a long ten minutes for Fiacra and Paula, waiting in the stark room with the posters on sexual health. Having just come to the end of a surprise (stupidity-induced) pregnancy, that was the last thing Paula wanted to see. She’d rung the house several times but there was no answer – Corry must have taken Maggie somewhere else. Fiacra was pacing up and down, occasionally pushing his fists against the walls or chairs, and she longed to tell him to stop fidgeting, but didn’t. He might start crying again. Eventually Corry came in, grim-faced.