The Dead Ground

by Claire McGowan

  ‘No.’ Paula fumbled her keys in the car lock, glittering with rime in the cold. ‘And why didn’t this case come up on Avril’s searches, if it was in 1984?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe they kept it quiet, if it reflected badly on the hospital.’

  ‘It just doesn’t make any sense. I need to see the picture they’ve got on file, but I wouldn’t count on him dragging it up any time soon. The good news is there may be prints.’

  ‘That’s fantastic. I’m afraid Croft appears to have concrete alibis for the disappearances of Darcy Williams and also Heather Campbell. She’s a bit more vague on Dr Bates and Alek Pachek. If we got prints maybe it would help crack her.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Paula wasn’t sure anything could. ‘Any other progress?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was heavy. ‘Not a single thing. No sign of Lucy or Darcy.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Keep pushing. Follow up every lead there is.’

  Paula was silent, thinking of two babies out there in the snow, Lucy ripped from her dying mother and Darcy vanishing from her garden in the seconds it took to answer a phone. ‘Guy?’ She hardly ever called him this, a symbol of their fraught work and personal entanglements. He sounded tired. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are we wrong? What if it’s nothing to do with Magdalena Croft? If she really had alibis . . .’

  ‘So she claims.’ Guy didn’t budge. ‘She’s scammed us somehow, I’m sure of it. We’ll find out how when we finally arrest her. Maybe the Williams case isn’t even connected. You said it didn’t fit the pattern.’

  ‘It seemed odd, but two baby abductions in the same town?’ She was doubtful. ‘That just doesn’t happen.’

  ‘Copycat? Is that possible?’

  ‘Um . . . in theory.’ She wondered again at Guy’s determination to pin it on Croft. ‘Have you ever thought . . . ? Is it possible we’re looking in entirely the wrong place?’

  Guy said nothing for a while. ‘I wish I knew, Paula.’

  Paula went home, ate dinner with PJ. Potatoes, chops, peas. Tasted none of it. Straight up for a bath in the old tub, the trickle of limescale down the tap, the hot water running out in the middle. Into bed in her thickest pyjamas and jumper, clutching a hot water bottle between her calves, shivering for ten solid minutes before falling into a thick sleep. Which was shattered at seven a.m., when her phone began ringing close to her ear. ‘Hello?’ The room was filled with cold white light. She could almost see her breath.

  Guy. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘I am now.’ Duh. ‘It’s Saturday, you know.’

  ‘I know. Can you come in? They’ve gone to arrest Croft. We got the prints. They matched.’

  Suddenly she was awake. ‘The prints on file? They matched the one found on Heather?’

  ‘Yes. Come on. Now.’

  ‘But – Mr O’Driscoll didn’t know her in the photo. He said it wasn’t her.’

  She heard the impatience in his voice. ‘Paula, every other bit of evidence points to her. Maybe the man was mistaken, or trying to protect her, who knows. Just please get in as soon as you can.’ He hung up.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The incident room in the main station was crammed with officers as Paula unwound her long green scarf. ‘She’s really here then?’

  Gerard was on hold with someone, the phone receiver tucked under his chin as he bashed two-fingered at his computer keyboard. He looked up as Paula took off her coat. She’d dressed in two jumpers again. Everyone probably thought she’d put on huge amounts of weight. ‘Yup,’ he said succinctly. ‘TSU brought her in an hour back.’

  ‘They sent Tactical Support, for one woman?’

  ‘Corry didn’t want a fuck-up. She has all those followers, doesn’t she? You’d never know who’d be there. And there’s a lot of press interest so she’s trying to keep a lid on it. Anyway, Corry’s having a crack at her now.’

  Paula was strangely nervous, knowing the woman was on the premises. Those eyes, they saw right through you. She was absurdly afraid that Magdalena would tell everyone her secret. She reminded herself they were looking for someone who could gut a pregnant woman like a carcass. Could the faith healer really do that, after all the couples she’d supposedly helped have babies, the sick she’d tried to cure? ‘What should I do? Where’s Gu— where’s Inspector Brooking?’

  Gerard gave her a sardonic look. ‘Guy’s in with Corry. Team effort.’

  ‘That’s unusual.’

  ‘Aye, season of goodwill and all that. Look, they must be ready.’

  Guy had just walked into the incident room, spotting Paula. ‘There you are. We need you.’

  ‘She came in OK?’

  ‘Yes, she’s been a model of good behaviour. Bewildered, polite, knows nothing. And she’s only engaged Danny McShane as her lawyer.’

  Even Paula knew that wasn’t good. The top criminal solicitor in town, Danny was as slippery as they came. The station tea-room had a picture of him pinned to the noticeboard, ripped from some glossy magazine. His eyes had been blacked out and devil’s horns drawn on in pen. ‘So she denies everything.’

  ‘Of course. But we’ve got the prints, she can’t keep it up forever.’

  Paula was uneasy with this confidence. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Guy was rounding the corner. ‘She’s asking to talk to you.’

  ‘Croft? Me? But – I don’t do interviews! Corry’ll never let me.’

  ‘At this point she’ll try anything. Come on.’

  ‘You’re sure about this?’

  Guy and Corry were directing Paula towards the interview room like pushy parents on the first day of school. She was quivering, smoothing down the front of her jumper.

  ‘We’re sure,’ said Corry, who was today attired in her grey suit, hair swinging in a ponytail. ‘She’s telling us nothing, and if we say it’s a psychological assessment we can get that bloody shyster lawyer out of the room.’

  ‘But – what will I ask her?’

  ‘Dr Maguire, is this or isn’t it your job?’

  ‘It is, but I don’t . . .’

  ‘Dr Maguire doesn’t usually interview in a criminal setting,’ Guy chipped in. Corry and Paula both glared at him. She could fight her own battles.

  She took a deep breath. ‘What’s my main focus?’

  Corry said, ‘If she knows anything about the murders. If she’s ever lost a child. If she fits your own profile. Anything that will break her.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Don’t try. Do it.’ The door loomed. ‘In you go.’

  It was lonely on that side of the glass. Usually the interviewing officer would have a partner with them, and the suspect a lawyer hovering on every word. But now it was just Paula, pale, shivering with nerves, and Magdalena Croft, composed, attentive, dressed warmly in a tweed skirt, flat boots, and a plain green jumper. With her glasses and grey hair, she looked like a kindly aunt.

  Paula cleared her throat. ‘How are you, Mrs Croft? This must be very distressing for you.’

  ‘Distressing, no. I only want to help. I’ve always done my best to help the police. Finding that little Polish boy meant the world to me. If only I could have traced the others.’

  Paula looked back at the two-way glass, knowing Guy would be on the other side of it. ‘I think it’s been explained, Mrs Croft, that the police have discovered quite a few things. They know about Michael, for example.’

  No reaction.

  ‘Michael Gillan? Back when you were Mary Conaghan? Your cousin went missing from his crib while you were minding him. Can you tell me about that?’ Nothing. Paula tried again. ‘Mary?’

  She slowly blinked. ‘My name is not Mary.’

  ‘But it was.’

  ‘A lot of things were. A life is long an
d twisty, Dr Maguire. People change hugely. You should know that, of anyone.’

  Paula ignored this, though her heart began to race under all the jumpers. ‘Mary was your name though?’ No reaction. Sweat was seeping into her armpits. ‘They blamed you, didn’t they?’

  ‘I was a child. They asked too much of me. I was just an unpaid skivvy to my aunt. But I didn’t hurt him. I’d never hurt a baby.’

  Paula relaxed a fraction. Croft had as good as admitted she was Mary Conaghan; that was progress. ‘Were you close to him? You looked after him.’

  ‘I had little choice. In anything that happened to me as a child.’

  ‘But you did take Michael?’

  She seemed to think about it for a long time. ‘I did. I hid him for a night only. He was never harmed. You see, I had no other way to escape.’

  ‘Escape?’

  ‘I needed out of that house. I needed to get home.’

  ‘Can you tell me why, Mary? Why did they send you there in the first place?’

  She gave a small, tight smile. Impossible to read. ‘These things are in the past, Doctor. The past is a different country and we’re all foreigners. I’m not what I was. None of us are.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow, Mrs Croft.’

  ‘I think you do. This girl Mary you’re speaking of. That isn’t me. I left her behind.’

  Paula made a small mark on her pad. Dissociation. She saw Magdalena looking and had the urge to cover it with her arm. ‘Tell me about the hospital, then. St John of God’s in Dublin. You were arrested again then, weren’t you?’

  Another blink. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘A baby went missing. Out of the labour ward, just like Alek Pachek. Her name was Orla Roberts. Only it didn’t end as well for Orla. She was found two days later on the hospital steps. She’d died. Exposure.’

  The woman locked eyes with Paula. ‘That’s very sad. Luckily I was able to help find little Alek before it came to that.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t recall this, Mrs Croft? We have a record of arrest for a Mary Conaghan, who was working as a student nurse there.’

  She shook her head. ‘These things, they happened to a different person.’

  ‘I see. Well, the thing is, Mrs Croft, that Mary Conaghan had her fingerprints taken as part of the investigation. It was the second time she’d been arrested over the disappearance of a child. Nothing could be proved – she worked there, so of course her prints would be on the scene – but as it happens they were kept on file. So that was useful for the police on this case.’ Paula couldn’t meet Croft’s eyes, so she pretended to be making notes on her pad, staring at the lines. ‘You may have heard, but Forensics did find one print on Heather Campbell’s body. There wasn’t much else. The person who’s taking these children is very careful. But we did get that.’ She looked up to find Magdalena staring at her. A trickle of fear ran down Paula’s throat. Focus, focus. She’d interviewed worse people. ‘The thing is, Mrs Croft, it matches the one on file for Mary Conaghan.’

  The woman was very still for a moment, like a statue in a church. Then she blinked again, her eyes cold behind the glasses. ‘Is that the reason I’m here? The fingerprint matches the one you found in Dublin?’

  ‘Yes. You also knew exactly where to find Alek.’ Paula tried to keep her voice steady.

  ‘I see. The police doubt that I have visions. Well, not all are blessed with the gift of faith.’ She raised her chin. ‘I’m not that well versed in science, I’m afraid. Fingerprints remain the same all throughout life, is that right, Dr Maguire?’

  ‘Yes. All through life, and no two are ever the same.’

  ‘Not even twins, I once heard.’

  ‘No. Not even identical twins.’

  ‘So if mine didn’t match the one you have, you’d have nothing against me?’ She held out her hands, thin and pale, like ash branches in the snow.

  ‘But they do match.’

  ‘I mean my prints now. These ones in front of me.’

  ‘Yes, but Mary – Mrs Croft – you must see they will match too. They never change, as we just said.’

  She smiled. It was quite terrifying. ‘Nevertheless, stranger things have happened. Why don’t you take them again before we talk more? If they match, I will tell you everything.’

  Paula looked helplessly at the window. ‘I – you mean you want to wait until the results are back?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like my lawyer back too, please.’

  There seemed to be no choice. ‘If that’s what you want, Mrs Croft. We’ll talk again later then.’ Paula tried to leave the room confidently, but the trickle of worry had grown into a full flood, and as she looked back through the window Magdalena was staring through, as if she could see Paula, and still smiling serenely.

  Getting fingerprints usually took at least several days, but Corry wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity to prove their case, and had already rushed them through the lab. After Croft’s request, she got on the phone and a young female constable was dispatched to take new prints of Magdalena’s thin white fingers, and then, they waited. Could this really be the person who’d hacked into the bodies of two women, ripped out a child as it drew its first breath, drowning in blood? There was such a stillness about Croft. Paula realised with a sinking heart she just couldn’t see it. But if it wasn’t Croft and it wasn’t Melissa Dunne, who was it?

  The tension in the incident room was unbearable. Leaving Croft behind glass with her lawyer, perfectly calm, they sat about waiting. Occasionally a phone would buzz and everyone would jump, but it was clear no work was getting done. Corry paced back and forth in the doorway of her office, occasionally picking up her phone and barking into it. ‘I don’t care how much it bloody costs! Get it done! Christ.’

  Guy was pretending to go through his emails at a desk, but he kept looking at the door of her office, and at 3.23 p.m. he walked over, shutting it behind him, which in no way stopped the whole office from overhearing their subsequent row. ‘I said we should have got her in sooner. Look at all the time she’s had now to cover her tracks.’

  ‘Inspector, are you suggesting she’s altered her fingerprints or something equally far-fetched?’

  ‘No, but she’s clever. She’s known for weeks that we suspect her.’

  ‘And whose fault is that? You’ve been acting from day one as if she’s guilty. It’s highly unprofessional!’

  After this there was a drop in sound, and after some more muffled exchanges, Guy emerged, closing the door with more force than was needed and going back to his desk without looking at anyone. They waited. At 4.03 p.m., Gerard pushed back his chair, balling up the paper he’d been working on. ‘What’s taking them so bloody long? We’ll have to let her go soon if they don’t get their arses in gear.’

  Paula looked at the phone again. She had a bad feeling about this. Just then, a trill. Corry darted in, and it seemed she paused for a moment before lifting the receiver. Every eye in the room followed her. ‘Hello, DCI Corry speaking.’ A pause. ‘I see. You’re sure? Thank you.’ She replaced the receiver. She stood at her desk for a moment, then passed a hand over her face before coming out into the main room. ‘Everyone,’ she said. They hung on her words. ‘I’m afraid she was right. The print isn’t hers. We have to let her go.’

  Paula realised she was on her feet. ‘But the name was the same! Mary Conaghan, that’s her name, she even told me it was!’

  Guy was at her side, gripping her elbow. ‘Leave it.’ He spoke low in her ear.

  ‘But – she told me! How can it not be her?’ Paula felt tears sting her eyes. People were turning, looking at her.

  ‘Paula. Control yourself.’ His face was set. ‘I was afraid this might happen. I think there’s more to this case than we’ve suspected. You said so yourself – it doesn’t fit, does it? The plan
ning and carefulness, and then that savagery?’

  ‘So what can we do? What else is there?’ They spoke in hisses, as around them the team sagged into disappointment, low voices murmuring, computers switched back into life, but for what purpose? Their two main leads had petered into nothing, vanished overnight like the melting snow.

  Guy whispered, ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just something I want to look into. I think you and I need to take a short trip. Are you in?’

  Paula passed a hand over her damp face, aching for Heather and her lost baby, and Darcy Williams, and all these other children being chosen by some dark logic, unstoppable. ‘I’m in.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Tallaghmar, Donegal.

  In Irish it meant the dead ground, or the barren ground, and it was a very literal name – it was amazing to think of anything growing in those bare, rocky fields. The snow had melted in patches, though a bitter wind still blew in off the sea, navy and sullen. Even from up on the headland they could see breakers in the bay, and further out, at the westernmost tip of Europe, the islands, dark and unknowable. Tory. Inisbofin. Names like breaths of harsh wind.

  ‘Is this the place?’

  ‘It must be. We’re practically off the map.’

  Donegal in the deep mid-winter. This was Guy’s trip idea, their last resort, so to speak. The birthplace of Mary Conaghan, whoever she’d really been. Time to go back to the start. He’d fudged it with Corry and he and Paula had left that morning, driving as far west as you could go before you dropped into the Atlantic, wide and deep and endless. Paula didn’t know what he’d told his wife, and didn’t ask.

  They’d long since abandoned Guy’s Sat Nav, were close to abandoning maps too. The address they had was no more than Ceol na Mara, Tallaghmar. Music of the Sea, the name of the house meant. Though it wasn’t music she could hear as they rounded the coast, but a restless chomping, a gnawing at the land like some caged animal gradually eating itself free. The only house near the beach looked abandoned, a turf-roofed farm cottage with stone walls and tiny windows like narrowed eyes. There was no driveway, just a dirt track leading to a collection of outhouses.