Who Took Eden Mulligan?

by Sharon Dempsey

  ‘Yeah, this one’s a bit different though. I was in a lull between cases, that strange time when you wonder if your working life is going to be logging records and tidying up documents for the Crown Prosecution forever.’

  Rose nodded. She knew that feeling. That fear of never making a difference. Of being resigned to chasing paper leads instead of proper ones, of talking in circles to satisfy parole boards.

  He noticed her looking down at the Mulligan file on his desk and continued. ‘So, when the ACC called me in and gave me the gist, I was pumped and ready to go. Do you know Dunlore, just outside Lisburn? It’s in a small village called Larchfield.’

  ‘Yeah, I know it. Pretty little place, looks a bit like Kent.’

  ‘Well, they have a small station – just a little outpost really – and get this, in runs this blood-covered girl, straight off the street.’

  Danny knew he was reeling her in. Nothing a psychologist likes more than a case with a bit of intrigue, a mystery crying out for unravelling. They were like coppers that way.

  ‘I still don’t see what you need me for, or why you’re on an active case when you’ve been sent to historical enquiries,’ she said, but he could hear the piqued interest in her voice.

  ‘Just take a look and you’ll understand. Come with me for a wee ride to the crime scene.’ He glanced down at the Mulligan case documents sitting on his desk, the dusty red box file holding years of false starts and dead ends.

  ‘A day like this shouldn’t be spent down in this dreary hole. Your family won’t mind if you take some time out, would they?’

  She put her head to the side and gave him a look. ‘Danny, I can’t go swanning off with you, no matter what the weather’s like. Plus, it looks to me as if you have your hands full here,’ she said, gesturing towards the folders.

  ‘The files can wait. We’ve more urgent business to attend. Please Rose. Just trust me.’ He was serious for a minute, worried that she wouldn’t come with him.

  ‘Fine. I’ll give you half an hour and if I don’t think it merits my time, I’m out. Well, what are you waiting on? Let’s go.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Rose snapped on her seatbelt, ready for Danny to take off. She’d a good idea he’d drive like he talked, which was way too fast. They headed onto the motorway, the fields flying past in a blur of green and golden sheaves of wheat. It was a glorious day. The weather had been uncommonly good for Northern Ireland lately, so much so that there was talk of hosepipe bans, dogs having to be rescued from overheating cars, and elderly people dropping dead from heat exhaustion.

  ‘Right, tell me what you know,’ she said.

  Danny filled her in on the blood-covered girl and her confession. ‘Uniforms went to the address and found three dead, and one badly injured but still alive.’

  ‘Where’s the girl now?’

  ‘Hospital – she had superficial knife injuries – but she isn’t talking.’ He blasted the air con up as high as it would go while Rose switched between radio stations, searching until she found something they could both agree on. ‘Raspberry Beret’ came on. A bit of Prince would do.

  ‘I still don’t see where you or I fit in to all this. Last time I checked, historical enquiries don’t throw up too many fresh corpses.’

  ‘You’ll understand when we get there.’ She could sense him smiling beside her.

  ‘The house is a bit out of the way. If you didn’t know where to look for it, you’d never accidentally come across it. SatNav is useless on these country roads.’ He overtook a red Audi that was being driven as slow as a tractor.

  ‘This isn’t somewhere a burglar or a madman would chance upon,’ he said, checking his speed.

  When they arrived in Larchfield, a young officer in uniform pointed them towards the crime scene. As they turned into the lane they saw police cars banked along the side of the hedgerow, and a strip of blue and white police tape tied across the entrance. Danny flashed his ID through the open car window and smiled, and they were waved through. The lane itself was little more than an overgrown dirt track that looked like it hadn’t seen much traffic over the last ten years. There was barely enough room for one car to make its way down it.

  They bumped slowly down the sloping lane and at the end of the track Rose caught her first glimpse of the house. It stood nestled into the landscape and the midmorning sunlight bathed its sandstone façade, making it look almost luminous, like something straight out of a story book. The cottage, which was bigger than Rose expected and more like a house, looked like it belonged to another era. Scratch that, she thought, it looked like it belonged to a time that had never actually existed in real life, as if it was from a world of quaint families, picnics of ginger beer and fruit cake, nights spent round an open fire. The kind of world where everyone looked out for each other.

  The house was built in an L shape, with a curved front entrance at the axis. Three upstairs windows were visible, and a small bay window was situated to the right of the front door but they were like blank eyes looking out, giving nothing away. Rose noted that the garden was totally secluded, hidden from the main road by trees, bushes and a dilapidated stone wall. It was eerily quiet except for the chirping of birds in the fruit-heavy trees.

  The surrounding hedgerows, shrubs, and trees were interspersed with wildflowers and knee-high dandelions, and the foliage had nearly consumed the house. But, for all its beauty, the scene didn’t look right. It was too calm, too quiet. Rose was used to thinking of crime scenes as being a bustle of action. Uniforms gossiping, police radios crackling, tech bureau people in their space suits collecting evidence and looking self-important, barking at the detectives to mind their size elevens. Instead, there was one uniform on guard, looking a bit queasy and unsure of himself where he stood near the entrance.

  ‘Here goes,’ Danny said, handing Rose a packet of protective gear.

  She looked at him. ‘Are you really going to let me trample all over a fresh crime scene?’

  ‘You’ve had the training and I know you’ve enough sense not to disturb anything. Besides, the SOCOs have been all over it already.’ He’d always had a renegade streak. She was certain it had landed him in trouble more often than he cared to admit, but she was also sure he was a first-rate detective despite it.

  They suited up in their blue plastic suits, hoods up and gloves on, and made their way over to the cop on the door. What is it with new recruits these days? Rose thought. Do they all have to look like they’re just through puberty? This one had the pimply face of a sixth former, and ears that sat like jug handles on either side of his neat little head. The sun was pounding down and the young officer looked like he was developing a red welt of sunburn across his greasy face.

  ‘Hello there,’ Rose said in her best congenial manner to hide the fact that she was breaking every rule in the handbook by entering another jurisdiction’s crime scene without good reason or permission. ‘Dr Lainey and DI Stowe.’

  The officer nodded and stood aside to allow them to enter. ‘The pathologist is still in there.’

  ‘Who were the first officers on the scene?’ Danny asked.

  ‘I believe that would be officers Richie Hughes and Anthony Clement, Sir.’

  ‘Tell them we need a word when we’re finished here.’

  ‘Yes, no problem.’

  Rose pushed the front door open. Someone had painted it an optimistic yellow once, but time and weather had left it peeling and cracked, showing the dull, grey undercoat lurking underneath. She checked the old rusty latch. No sign of a forced entry, she noted.

  ‘Sir, the bodies are still upstairs,’ Jug Ears said from behind them.

  Danny turned to Rose. ‘One victim found alive in a downstairs room, barely breathing – we don’t know yet if he’ll make it. The others were all in the bedroom upstairs.’

  They stepped inside to the gloom of the hallway and Rose had a feeling of stepping into the past. The coolness of the interior seemed at odds with the blistering heat outside an
d the flagstoned flooring and dark wood architrave were like something you only see in period dramas. Time and wear and tear had left the woodwork scuffed and peeling, but you could see money and craftsmanship had gone into the place.

  Yet for all the quaintness and old-fashioned details, Rose’s stomach did that sickening twisting thing, as if she knew they’d entered a place where nothing good could ever exist. She was starting to think she was becoming sentimental, a bit soft, but she knew from experience you can get a feel for a place the minute you step foot in it. Some places feel dirty and sordid. Others have that ghostly feel, causing that barely perceptible tug on the hairs at the back of your neck, that involuntary shiver. This was one of those places. She knew well enough to keep that to herself though. Danny would have called her a ‘fecking buck eejit’ for spouting such nonsense, but the eerie hush and the sharp contrast from the beautiful, lush countryside scene, made her want to find out more and bolt at the same time.

  Rose looked down at the dried, bloody footprints that stood out against the uneven flagstoned floor of the hallway. Numbered evidence markers sat at each footprint like a place setting at a gory feast. ‘Watch your step.’

  Danny looked at her and nodded. She knew that whatever they were about to see, it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  The stairs creaked, announcing the departing pathologist.

  ‘Raymond Lyons,’ he said, introducing himself.

  ‘You’re new to the job, I hear,’ said Danny, giving him a smile. ‘Detective Danny Stowe and Dr Rose Lainey, forensic psychologist.’

  ‘Aye, new to this job, but I bring twenty years’ experience with me.’

  Rose caught Danny smirking at Lyons’ brisk reply.

  ‘Anything of importance we should know about the victims now?’

  ‘Nothing beyond the obvious. Need to get them on the table to tell you exactly what has gone on.’ The pathologist was hitting sixty, but had that healthy look of careful living. Probably went cycling every weekend and limited himself to one glass of red a week. Rose envied his type.

  ‘At first glance, what do you think we’re looking at?’ Rose asked.

  ‘I prefer to keep my counsel until I know exactly what I’m dealing with, but I can confirm that there are three bodies, each with multiple stab wounds. Time of death probably no more than ten hours ago. I’ll be in touch.’ With that, he left them to it.

  ‘Come on, in here first. This is what I want you to see,’ said Danny directing Rose towards the living room. Rose stepped into the room, noticing the larger evidence markers on the floor that indicated where the first victim had been found. The small, square, sash window was covered by climbing ivy, allowing little light to spill in despite the brightness of the day outside. As Rose took in the scene around her, hyper-alert and curious, she gasped, realising why Danny had brought her here. Over a fireplace that was little more than a blackened hole, a scrawl of blackened chalk spelled out WHO TOOK EDEN MULLIGAN?

  ‘What the fuck?’ Rose said.

  ‘I know, interesting, right?’ Danny smiled like he’d just been handed a present tied with a scarlet-coloured bow.

  ‘You’re on the historical review case, and then the call came in about this?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Rose thought of the red box file she had seen sitting on his desk in the basement office.

  ‘Do you know much about the Mulligan case?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I know of it. Hard not to considering it’s been in the news on and off for years. It’s one of those cases that gets flagged up every so often, usually when the politicians start talking about legacy and issues of the past. Must be sad for the family.’

  She examined the rest of the room, noting that the whole place was cluttered with furniture. Trestle tables, a sideboard and a large pale green velvet sofa sat in the middle of the room, facing the open stone fireplace, where the remnants of what looked like burnt papers lay in the grate.

  ‘You need to get that checked out,’ Rose said, indicating towards the ashes. They could hear the shuffle of techs overhead in the upstairs rooms.

  ‘Are you up for having a look at what’s up there?’ He pointed to the room above them.

  Rose nodded and they made their way up the threadbare carpeted staircase.

  ‘Just don’t touch anything.’

  ‘What do you take me for?’ she asked.

  ‘A pen pusher medic,’ he deadpanned.

  Rose was prepared for the smell but when it hit her she felt nauseous. It was thick and viscous, as if you could reach out and touch it. Meaty with an undercurrent of metal, it tickled at the back of the throat.

  The door of the bedroom to the right was wide open, inviting them in.

  ‘Ladies first,’ Danny said.

  Rose rolled her eyes. ‘Man up, Stowe.’

  The two techs walked out of the room carrying evidence bags. ‘All done for now, just don’t do anything stupid,’ the second one said. ‘It’s not pretty in there.’

  He wasn’t wrong.

  The scene was an aftermath of an orgy of violence – limbs, bloodied and splayed, entangled together as if they were one mass. Two men, one woman. All young – early to mid-twenties. Initially, it was difficult to identify which limb belonged to whom.

  The girl was easy enough – blonde hair matted with drying blood, gashes to the neck and upper chest. She was wearing what looked like an old-fashioned cotton nightdress, yellowing with age and wide open at the front.

  A man lay with his bloodied arm slung across the woman’s small breasts, defence wounds obvious on his hands. He’d fought back, but the puncture wound to the neck had probably been enough to halt him. He was in joggers but no T-shirt, his chest slashed into vicious ribbons of flesh.

  The other man was lying on his front and half-hanging off the bed, his dark jeans soaked, as if he’d pissed himself. Again, no top on. The bizarre twist of his head showed a substantial neck injury. It looked like he’d had his throat cut, possibly while his head had been yanked backwards by the hair.

  They all looked young and somehow enchantingly pretty, in a twisted, grotesque sort of way.

  ‘Christ, someone has gone full-on psycho,’ Rose said. For once, Danny was quiet. Rose had expected him to give a running commentary on the scene, pointing out the obvious, coming up with surprising insights. She was aware he was watching her. Realised he was waiting to see how she read the scene.

  The house gave off a vibe straight out of Grimm’s nightmares. A twisted fairy-tale meant to unsettle and strike fear. Rose still wasn’t sure what Danny’s cold case had to do with this bloodied scene, but she had a sense that whatever the link, she was about to become entangled in a case she wouldn’t easily forget. As they walked around the room their plastic shoe covers made sickening, squelchy noises as they stuck to the blood-covered floorboards. Danny crouched down to look under the bed.

  ‘Nada. Just dust,’ he said straightening up. ‘Have to check though – you never know when you could get lucky.’

  He opened the old, Victorian-style, mahogany wardrobe. It had two doors, a central set of drawers and a mirror. As the door pulled open, the image of the bodies on the bed reflected in the mirror looked like a still frame from a horror movie – too bloodied and bizarre to be real.

  ‘It isn’t the primary scene,’ she commented, watching as he rummaged through the few outfits that were hanging up.

  ‘Nah, there’s too much blood on the stairs and the downstairs floorboards.’

  ‘They’ve been placed here, staged for some reason. This is the girl’s bedroom by the look of the clothes. Not many clothes in there though so maybe they were on holiday?’

  ‘Mm,’ he didn’t commit to an opinion. Too early for that.

  He felt along the inside of the wardrobe door, reaching into the back and then above. Nothing.

  Rose moved over to the window and looked out at the pastoral scene below. Swags of bindweed hung over the top of the outside of the window, but it looked like someone
had partially cleared it to see the view.

  ‘They’re still relatively fresh according to Lyons,’ he commented.

  ‘Yes. The smell’s bad, but not rancid. I’ve smelt worse. The heat hasn’t helped things.’

  ‘Yeah, it will have certainly sped up the decomposition.’

  A couple of flies were now playing kamikaze against the dirty windowpane.

  Footsteps creaked on the stairs before one of the local officers arrived at the bedroom door. ‘Anthony Clement, Sir. I was told you wanted a word?’

  ‘You and Hughes were first on the scene?’ Danny asked. The young officer looked like he was about to piss himself, frozen in the doorway and not daring to step across the threshold. His eyes looked everywhere except at the bed.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Danny moved away from the bed. ‘I assume you followed protocol? Didn’t risk tampering with anything? Better to tell us now if you did.’

  ‘No, Sir, but we had to respond to the live one.’

  ‘Of course. But you’ve handed your boots over to the techs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what did you find when you arrived?’ Rose asked.

  ‘We found the breathing one first, downstairs in the living room. Blood everywhere. We could barely find a pulse. It’s not likely he’ll make it, going by the amount of blood loss. Never seen anything like it. Not round here.’

  ‘He was conscious?’

  ‘No, he was out of it. Ambulance arrived within twenty-five minutes. This place isn’t easy to find without local knowledge.’

  ‘Any ID on him?’ Danny asked.

  ‘No, not a thing. He was wearing jeans and a shirt. No phone or anything else on him. We tried to patch up the wounds as best we could and radioed for back-up. As soon as the paramedics were on their way, we came upstairs, found the other victims.’

  Rose looked at Danny then back at Clement. ‘Then what? Did you search the property?’

  ‘Yes. No sign of a break-in. Back door was locked from the inside, one of those big old-fashioned keys still in the keyhole. We came in through the front door. It was wide open, as though someone had left in full flight.’