The Dead Ground

by Claire McGowan

  For a moment, it seemed he couldn’t let it go. He opened his mouth. Melissa stared at him, swollen with self-righteousness. Then he slumped. ‘Interview terminated.’

  He came out, shutting the door, and then he was talking very fast. ‘Boss, I’m so sorry, I nearly had her, she was really crying, I think, let me try again, I—’

  Guy clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘You did your best. She’s not the killer. At least we know that now.’

  Fiacra looked incredulous. ‘But, boss – who else have we got?’

  ‘No one. We’ve got no one.’

  Fiacra’s shoulders dropped. ‘Shite.’

  Guy didn’t pull him up on the swearing. ‘Come on, we’ll—’

  They heard feet running, and Corry was back, her normally impassive face stretched tight with anxiety. Her ID bounced around her neck. ‘Brooking. You need to come and see this.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘At least a hundred. They’re blocking the whole bloody road.’

  They were looking out the window of Corry’s office, where on the pavement in front of the station, behind the reinforced walls, the crowd of protestors were singing. What was it? Paula strained to hear through the strong glass. Suffer Little Children to Come unto Me.

  ‘Fuck.’ Corry balled her fists. ‘There’s going to be an accident if they don’t move.’ There were so many protestors the traffic had begun to back up on the road, horns sounding and brakes squealing. The desk officers had already started trying to herd them onto the pavement off the road. Some waved placards, many of which displayed the now familiar dead foetus, alien eyes, delicate tracing-paper skin, fragile as hope.

  ‘What can we do?’ Gerard’s shoulders were rigid. ‘Should we call the Tactical Support boys?’

  Corry said nothing.

  ‘Ma-am—’

  ‘All right, Constable, I heard you. Let me think.’ For a long minute she stared at the crowd, lips pursed. Gerard looked at Paula, who shrugged helplessly. This night just got stranger and stranger. The crowd had lighters, and the noise of their singing reached through the bombproof glass. Protect the Unborn. The Silent Screams. Let Me Live, Mummy. Each placard like a direct message to Paula. Choice, they said. What choice was it when everything you did felt like wringing your heart in your own two hands?

  ‘Right,’ said Corry finally. ‘Like I said before, let her go. Dunne. Let her go.’

  Guy started. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘We’ve finished with her. We’ve followed due process. I won’t be bullied into a decision. Monaghan – go.’

  Gerard went like a greyhound from a trap. Corry rubbed her temples. ‘Fuck. Fuck this bloody case. Sorry, Inspector, Dr Maguire. But I’m done with this. She fitted your profile. She fitted it and she looked guilty as sin.’

  Paula quailed. ‘Yes, yes she did – but—’

  ‘But what? I need answers. This is a safe town. That’s what we always say. It’s post-conflict. You can walk down the street without some maniac in a balaclava shooting you or mowing down your children in their buggies. And now this. I’ve a pregnant woman missing, another woman dead, and a wee baby out there on her own, no mother to care for her—’ For a horrible moment Paula thought Corry was going to cry. Instead a familiar steely look came over the DCI’s face. ‘Have we any other leads at all?

  Guy waited a moment. ‘You know my thoughts. The psychic – Magdalena Croft, I mean – she also fits the age profile.’

  Corry stared out the window. ‘I’d have to arrest her. Think of the publicity – I didn’t want to move until we had more. Especially after this. Dunne was the only real suspect we had and we’re letting her go. There’s nothing on Croft – she was cleared for police work, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Guy caught Paula’s eyes; she nodded slightly. Corry had to know sometime. ‘She used to go under another name. She was Mary Conaghan when she first started out.’

  Corry said, ‘And you know that how?’

  Paula and Guy said nothing.

  ‘I see. You investigated without my say-so. You thought my judgement was off.’

  Guy answered stiffly. ‘I’m afraid I thought Croft was our best lead, yes. Under normal circumstances she’d have been the first one interviewed.’

  ‘Normal circumstances meaning what?’

  ‘Not Northern Ireland.’

  Corry didn’t speak for a while, and Paula held her breath. Then a slow nod. ‘Well. Maybe my judgement is off. The truth is, this case is breaking me. You have children, don’t you, Inspector?’

  ‘A daughter.’ That question again.

  ‘I’ve a daughter too, and a boy. It kills me thinking of little Darcy out there. If she’s even alive. Maybe I need to hand it over to some young fella who’s never been near a child in his life.’ She put her hands on her own stomach for a moment. ‘It gets me right here. It makes me feel I’ve no strength at all.’

  Paula said nothing. She knew exactly what Corry meant.

  ‘Can you bring me something more on Croft? I can’t afford another bungled arrest.’

  ‘We’ll check again,’ said Guy. ‘I really feel that’s the best option.’

  ‘Look,’ said Paula, pointing out the window. ‘She’s coming out.’

  The security gates were opening in front of the police station. Melissa Dunne walked out in her long skirt and Puffa jacket. She moved with a shuffling gait, and she carried her belongings in a plastic Sainsbury’s bag, but when the crowd caught sight of her the roar was so loud it shook the glass of the office window. Paula took an involuntary step back.

  ‘They love her,’ sighed Corry. ‘Unbelievable. The woman’s wired to the moon, and they worship her.’

  When Melissa raised her hands and smiled at the crowd, Paula thought worship was exactly the right word. In that moment there was no one she resembled so much as Magdalena Croft. And suddenly Paula knew exactly where she’d heard the phrase pay her debts.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Helen Corry lived in a fancy-dan house on the outskirts of Ballyterrin, on a road that quickly gave way to green fields, cut through by the motorway to Belfast. Paula was standing on the doorstep realising she should have brought something – wine, or chocolates, or a collection envelope for St Vincent de Paul. Her mother had drummed it into her from an early age, catching the child’s arm as they walked to someone’s doorstep – never go empty-handed, Paula. They’d arranged to have a drink after the end of a long, exhausting, and ultimately futile day. Melissa Dunne was free, and they had no other suspects.

  She rang the doorbell, which gave out a tinkly bing-bong sort of noise. Nothing happened, so she put her ear to the door, which was thudding slightly. Was that Metallica? The door flew open, almost hitting Paula in the head, and there stood the Chief Inspector, in a luxury black cashmere tracksuit, a large glass of wine dangling from one red-taloned hand. ‘There you are, Paula, I can’t hear myself think over this racket.’ She shouted, ‘Shut that bloody music off! It’s not even music, it’s noise!’ It was exactly how she spoke to her officers at the station.

  There was a vibration from upstairs, and the din went down a fraction. ‘Teenagers,’ Corry said, by way of explanation. ‘They’ve my heart scalded. Come on in, Paula.’

  The house was very tidy, showroom-shiny with large vases holding bits of twig, abstract oils in splashy colours, slippery marble floors underfoot. Christmas lights had been strung over the pictures and cards lined the mantelpiece in the sitting room, glimpsed in passing. A huge TV blared in the same room, unwatched, and the place was as hot as a hammam. Paula took off her heavy coat and held it over her arm awkwardly, as the DCI led her into the (also marble-topped) kitchen. ‘Have a wee seat.’ Paula hopped onto a chrome stool at the kitchen island. It had been her mother’s dream to get a kitchen island one d
ay, not that there was room in the pokey terraced house they still lived in. ‘You’ll have a drink?’ Corry was already filling a huge balloon glass.

  ‘Well, I’m driving, so maybe just water—’

  ‘Have a bit.’

  A vast lake of wine was set in front of Paula, who regarded it helplessly. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘It’s about time we had a chat, I thought. Woman to woman, if you buy into all that bollocks.’

  ‘Er—’

  ‘You like working at the unit?’

  ‘Eh – yes, of course. It’s fascinating. I don’t think there’s another job like it in the country.’

  ‘He’s a good boss, Brooking?’

  ‘Yes. Very good.’

  ‘And good-looking.’ Helen took a sip of her wine. ‘Don’t you think? Very English, but easy on the eye.’

  ‘Eh—’ Paula tried to give nothing away. ‘He’s a very good boss, everyone says so.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Corry set her hands on the marbled countertop. ‘I’m a good boss too, Paula. Ask Gerard Monaghan. I like to put the fear of God in the young fellas, but it’s the only way to get their respect, you see, if you happen to have a pair of breasts. Breasts and terror together – they can’t get their wee heads round it. But we need more women up there. Sexual assault, domestic abuse – sometimes people just want to see another female face, you know.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Where was this going?

  ‘I want to create a job for you on my team,’ said the DCI directly. ‘A staff job. Permanent.’

  Paula had been lifting the glass to her mouth, almost reflexively, and now set it down. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’d work for me. You’d stay in town permanently – there’s only funding for one more year down there, isn’t that right?’

  ‘But they’ll probably renew it, and—’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure. You know as well as I do Guy Brooking was never going to stick around here in Hicksville for long. Then you’ll be working for Bob Hamilton. Don’t tell me that doesn’t put the fear on you.’

  ‘Um—’ She thought of red-faced Bob, fat fingers helplessly pressing buttons on his newly issued Blackberry. ‘I’m sure he’d do a good—’

  ‘It’s a vanity posting and you know it. That unit was just a sop – use up a bit of spare budget one year, look like you’re working cross-border, put some old past-it Sergeant in charge. But then doesn’t your man Brooking come over and start getting up everyone’s noses.’

  ‘But the old cases—’

  ‘Well, maybe they’ll solve a few, maybe not. They had to do something. It was getting embarrassing, especially in the South.’ She changed tack suddenly. ‘I could use you on all kinds of cases. Murder, violent crime. You could do whatever you wanted.’

  ‘It’s missing persons that interests me. That’s my research background.’

  ‘Because of your mother?’

  Did everyone know? ‘I didn’t think you were from Ballyterrin.’

  ‘No, I’m a Belfast girl, but sure they told me all about you when you came to the station. The wee Maguire girl, they call you. Everyone knows what happened.’

  Paula swilled her untouched wine. ‘Maybe it is because of her. I don’t know. It’s just – if we can find them, we can fix it. If they’re not already dead, or broken – sometimes it’s not too late to bring them back.’

  ‘You were twelve when it happened?’

  Corry’s directness made Paula swallow hard. ‘Thirteen. Just.’

  ‘Same as my Rosie. Doesn’t bear thinking about. But as for missing persons, sure don’t we do most of the work anyway?’

  ‘Er—’ She’d nothing to say to that. ‘I don’t know, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Please, it’s Helen. Are you not drinking that wine?’

  ‘Oh! Yes.’ She took a small mouthful, finding it sour and scorching on her tongue. One mouthful wouldn’t make a difference, would it? ‘The thing is, Helen, I’d always planned to go back to London myself. I came over for one case, and then there were some loose ends to tie up, and I said I’d do a year—’

  ‘What have you to go back to? Boyfriend?’

  The frankness was caustic. ‘No, but—’

  ‘And in Ballyterrin, have you nothing to stay for?’

  She thought of her dad, of Pat, of Saoirse and Dave, of Avril and Gerard and Fiacra. Of Aidan. Of Guy. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, think about it. I’m impressed with your work and I’d like to use you. You’d have a proper role, with the chance to change how we do things in future. All those cases you’re looking at now – they’re already gone, Paula. They’re dead, ninety-nine per cent of the time. But we can help the people who haven’t gone yet. Find them before they even get lost.’ She was leaning across the counter now, elbows out, her voice earnest. Paula could see the smooth foundation on her cheeks. Who wore full make-up round the house at nine o’clock at night?

  ‘It’s a great offer. Thank you, Helen. I just need to think about it.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ She sprang back up. ‘Paula, can I offer you anything else, a wee biscuit maybe, some crisps?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine, thanks.’ She took another small sip of wine. ‘I shouldn’t stay, the snow is so bad.’

  ‘I know, it’s awful. They’ll have the gritters out again tonight, if they’ve any sense in their heads. Bloody council. The station car park’s like an ice rink.’ Helen was uncorking another bottle of wine. ‘I have to say I’m really worried about Heather Campbell. You know as well as I do a pregnant woman couldn’t get very far in this.’

  ‘What else can we do?’ Paula could feel the wine lying on her stomach like a layer of oil on water.

  ‘I just don’t know. We’re doing everything we can. I mean, she’s an adult, she could have just gone away for a bit, the shock of losing her mother – but the husband is adamant she wouldn’t. And this snow . . . no, I don’t like it. We’ve so far managed to keep it under wraps that she’s Dr Bates’s daughter, but it’ll get out at some point. Bloody press are all over me as it is.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She missed this, talking over the cases with someone who shared her obsession. Thanks to her own inability not to sleep with any man she got close to, things with both Guy and Aidan were far too weird at the moment.

  ‘Mum?’ A girl had come into the room, pre-pubescent breasts poking out the front of her High School Musical T-shirt. This must be Rosie Corry.

  ‘What is it, love?’ Helen Corry stroked the girl’s hair with careless affection. ‘You’re like a whin bush there, have you no hairbrush?’

  The girl pulled away. ‘Will you tell Connor to turn his music down, I can’t hear Glee.’

  ‘Can you not tell him yourself?’

  ‘He doesn’t listen.’

  ‘And you think he’ll listen to me? OK, pet. God forbid you should miss Glee.’

  The girl lifted a packet of crisps from a large bowl on the counter. ‘I Sky-Plussed it for you for later.’

  ‘Thanks, pet. That’s my Rosie,’ she said to Paula as the girl went out. ‘Connor is the noisy one upstairs, he’s fourteen. A deadly age. Take my advice, Paula, leave it as long as possible. Have your youth. Don’t get married yet.’

  ‘Mm.’ She rearranged her jumper, suddenly very conscious of her stomach. ‘Not much chance of that.’

  ‘I was a few years younger than you when Connor popped out. Probably never have married his dad except for that, but there you go. My mammy would have killed me otherwise. Anyway he’s gone now, and good riddance.’

  She’d heard as much from Gerard. ‘You’re divorced? I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. He used to be in sales, Johnny, but then he got made redundant and I got promoted. Somehow he didn’t feel that being at home all day was compatible with looking
after his own children.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘That’s how it happens, Paula.’ She waved her wine glass. ‘They think they’re so liberated, just because they change a nappy now and again, but when it comes down to it, it’s you that has to sacrifice your body, your career, everything. So put it off as long as you can.’

  ‘Why did you join? The police, I mean?’

  Corry set down her glass and mimed. ‘An ex-boyfriend punched me in the face.’

  Paula looked startled. Corry smiled. ‘I was a bit more pliable in those days, let’s say. Anyway I went straight to the police, dumped him, and all they could do was try to blame me. I provoked him, apparently. What was I wearing at the time? What had I said? Only one other woman in that whole station, and she was the tea lady. Even the bloody sniffer dogs were male. So I thought – Helen, be the change you want to see in the world. I know people say I got promoted on the back of being female, but I don’t care. I’m better than most of those ould fellas that still have their heads stuck at the Battle of the Boyne as if it was last week.’ She poured more wine into her glass. ‘And you, why the psychology?’

  Paula thought about it. ‘I wanted to understand. Why they do it. What they’re thinking. And most of all where they go.’

  ‘Where who go?’

  ‘The ones who don’t come back.’

  Corry nodded slowly. ‘I see.’

  Paula took a deep breath. ‘I better be going, Helen. Thanks for the wine, and well, for the offer. I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Safe home.’ Helen examined Paula’s glass. ‘And here was me thinking you’d be a good girl to get plastered with.’

  ‘It’s just I’ve the car, you know, and the snow . . . another time.’

  As Paula drove home, fresh flurries landing on the windscreen, she was thinking of the hand Helen had laid on her daughter’s blond head. Watching TV together, eating crisps. That was a mother, a constant and unquestioned presence. Rosie Corry would not have considered anything different, and neither had Paula, until her mother was gone and nothing was ever the same again.