Who Took Eden Mulligan?

by Sharon Dempsey

  Rose placed her hand on the box file almost reverently, knowing that the minute she opened it and began reading the contents, it would consume her every thought. It would hound her until she had reached some sort of resolution. One of the many reasons why she had ended up in the field that she had.

  Rose was seven when her father was shot for the first time. Two men on a motorcycle had waited on him coming out of his place of work. The lone bullet skidded over his shoulder, causing nothing more than deep grazing. The next one, three years later, didn’t miss. It went straight through his temple, exiting at the other side. They pumped a few more in, just for good measure.

  It was five years later that Rose discovered the bullets that killed her father would’ve been better placed in her mother.

  The republican creed was Evelyn Lavery’s religion. She was evangelical in her politics and in the movement she found a reason to live. She believed her feminist agenda was served by the movement and she happily subjugated her family’s needs to that of her comrades.

  The last time Rose saw her mother had been on the morning of her Maths A level; Evelyn had been bustling around the house before rushing out the door. An image of her in a red trench coat, her hair pulled into a ponytail, was seared into Rose’s consciousness. It was probably bedtime before Evelyn would have realised Rose was gone and wouldn’t be coming back.

  The murder of her father, along with her mother’s murky past, certainly played a part in her career choice. But there was also just something about being able to employ logic-based intuition coupled with research, learning and understanding of the human condition that really appealed to her. Lately, so much of her job had been looking at the macro elements of criminality, seeing how society dealt with wrongdoing and how to improve upon the rehabilitation of prisoners. Working with Danny and the PSNI was a return to something more dramatic – an up-close study of how to unpick the criminal mind. Part of her job in the early days of her career was to use profiling as a device to formulate a scenario that brought the killer and victims together. She was schooled in the complex psychological apparatus of deviants. The contents of the folders that came across her desk brought her into contact with individuals she wouldn’t want to meet in any other context.

  She lifted the Mulligan box file and placed it on her desk. All cases carried secrets buried under the weight of time; truths eroded and retold with careful editing. The Mulligan case would be no different in that respect. She moved her hand to pull back the lid, when a sharp knock at the door made her jump.

  ‘Dr Lainey, I see you found your way down to your new home.’ Assistant Chief Constable Ian McCausland entered the room without waiting for Rose to say come in. He carried himself with the presence of a man who knew he had power and liked it, and was built like a Saracen tank, broad and squat.

  Rose stood. ‘Assistant Chief Constable, good morning.’

  ‘Dr Lainey, please sit down, no need for formalities. I wanted to welcome you to your new post, and to have a little chat about what the job involves. Make sure you understand the role and how we expect you to handle yourself within the remit of our investigation. DI Stowe was most insistent when he requested your input.’

  ‘Yes, he is aware of my background and experience in handling cases of this nature.’

  ‘And what nature would that be?’

  ‘Cases whereby a confession is offered voluntarily but is almost certainly false. Some people like to confess, feel a need to unburden themselves, even when innocent of the crime.’

  He grimaced as if last night’s dinner had repeated on him, making it clear that what she had stated offended him.

  Rose continued. ‘There are many reasons why someone might confess to something they didn’t do. They can be protecting someone else or simply seeking attention and notoriety. Others believe they truly are guilty and want to be punished.’

  ‘Well, whatever you uncover, keep in mind that we have a multiple murder case on our hands. It’s only been six months since the Lennon case. You may not be aware of it, but DI Stowe is still dealing with the fallout. Finding himself exiled to cold cases was part of his penance. The Dunlore cottage murders is his chance to redeem himself.’

  Danny had alluded to the case and Rose sensed that he was trying to make up for his mistakes. She knew that in Belfast, payment for past sins was always demanded.

  She sat back in her chair. It squeaked in protest, as if the mechanisms had been rusted by the dampness hanging in the room.

  ‘I understand that we are to consider the Mulligan case as part of the investigation,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, we have been asked to reopen the file, to see if we can provide some sort of comfort to the family. But there’s a good chance that the graffiti on the wall at Dunlore is irrelevant to the murders. One of those strange occurrences that can be thrown up during an investigation – it has to be looked at, but will most likely prove to be a mere annoyance.

  ‘As you probably know, my officers are under greater pressure than ever before to be seen to be righting any wrongs from the past with clear-eyed scrutiny.’ It sounded like a rehearsed sound bite.

  Rose noticed the roll of flesh bulging from his thick neck, pressing against his too-tight, starched white collar. He had straw-like hair that had probably been blond when he was young, but age had weathered it to a dull gold. He walked across the room, taking in the scruffy decor, the window too high up to show anything but a glimpse of metal railings, and too narrow to let in any natural daylight to make a worthwhile difference. She knew McCausland would have to answer to the policing board and was expected to be active in pursuing any leads in historic cold cases.

  ‘As an outsider, you need to understand we are working within a politically hostile environment. Sure, things have changed, but the force is still treated with contempt by many within the communities of this province. Those in the nationalist community will always have a sense of distrust, and now the Unionist community feel we have sold out. We can’t win.’ He turned around to look at Rose with his hands held up, as if in surrender.

  ‘Are you up to the job, Dr Lainey?’

  ‘I’m well aware of the challenges, Sir. I’m from Belfast originally.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ve not worked here before and this place isn’t easy to crack. Don’t be fooled into thinking you have the measure of us just yet.’

  ‘No, Sir. I appreciate the complexities at play.’

  ‘Good. I hope you do.’ He looked directly at Rose, seeming to assess her worth, his eyes boring into her.

  ‘It helps that you are an outsider in some ways, but never forget that we have lived through hard times. There are always reasons for every judgement call.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘That being said, we want the past to be looked at in a completely different way. Previously, we have been accused of examining certain cases with less intent than others. That needs to be addressed. They think we have shown leniency and have misinterpreted the law to suit our own agenda. Well, not on my watch, Dr Lainey. Any case you look at, I expect to have full disclosure, a clean ripping off the sticking plaster. If we don’t like what we find, then too bad. Unfortunately, crippling budget cuts and diminishing police numbers mean that I can’t offer you much manpower. You need to work smart. Call in resources only as and when they are essential.’

  He rested his back against the filing cabinets. ‘What I want DI Stowe to do is, in effect, take the political out of the cases in here.’ He slapped the metal cabinet and it shook against his bulk. ‘Treat them like any other cold case. Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary’s destruction of the Historical Enquiries Team unit was short-sighted. It seems that the politicians have started to realise that, but rather than make a public announcement, and actually give us a proper budget to work with, they are trying to go around the back door. You two do a good job – who knows? Maybe they’ll see the worth of funding a proper unit again.’

  He smiled like he was offering her the promise of a rewa
rd, something to keep her on track. But she had read the subtext. If it didn’t work out, then the blame would lie at her feet.

  He looked down at the red Mulligan box file.

  ‘This case has been flagged up as being of political significance before the Dunlore murders occurred. It’s hoped that by examining the evidence, we can assuage some of the current hostilities, and, as you well know, it is now implicated in the current investigation by deed of the reference to Mulligan found on the cottage wall.’

  ‘So, the Mulligan review is a whitewash you want to use to help keep the Ministers in Stormont in their jobs?’ she asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

  Rose understood the political trade-offs. It wasn’t that long ago in Northern Ireland that tit-for-tat meant shootings, one side of the community against the other, now it was horse-trading, the offer of resolution for one old injustice in exchange for another. Political trade-offs played out to help those in power keep it at all cost.

  ‘Not at all, Dr Lainey.’ He looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth when he said her name.

  ‘You’d do well to check that attitude. Historical enquiries are of great significance in creating a sense of fair-dealing. People need to feel heard and respected. Police work is about more than clear-up rates.’

  Rose considered ACC McCausland’s words. He was making all the right noises about fairness and justice, but she knew that it would take more than words. Actions cost and if he wasn’t prepared to put the funds in place to give Danny and her the backing required, there was only so much they could do.

  She could see McCausland was hoping for a tidy review of the Mulligan case. A mere paper shuffling exercise that would be neatly tidied up within a few weeks, not something drawn out, bloody and messy, like the crime scene she’d witnessed in the fairy-tale cottage.

  CHAPTER 13

  Danny felt the buzz and hustle of a case in the early stages. That time when anything is possible, and all leads are up for grabs. He’d enjoyed the look on Rose’s face when she saw the message on the cottage’s living room wall. No cop worth their salt would be able to resist the lure of a fresh case and he knew Rose would have made a brilliant cop. He could sense a restlessness in her. Her work wasn’t sustaining her and maybe it was time she came back to Belfast for good. All that prison research and dealing with Home Office policy must be mind-numbing. She needed what he could offer her – work with real meaning and fulfilment. But at the same time, he had enough insight to know that he wanted her back for his own reasons too. Historical enquiries were all well and good, but he needed the adrenaline rush of the chase. Cold cases were all paperwork and dusty files. He’d lose his edge if he stayed in that arse end of nowhere bunker too long.

  Malachy Magee had been assigned to the case with him. He could hardly complain. DS Magee was good; a steady hand and a reliable cop. But Danny felt a spark when working with Rose. Even at uni, she pushed him to do better. She made him try harder, just to keep up with her.

  Magee was back out at Dunlore cottage, but they had agreed to meet at four o’clock, to assign tasks to the wider team. The air in the office was stagnant. He had a wild thirst for a cold pint of Heineken but made do with a paper cup of water from the water cooler. He glanced out of the sorry excuse for a window to the remains of a beautiful day, and he was instantly reminded that it was marching season. The Twelfth of July parades would be in full flow by the end of the week. Wee hellions would be out in force on the eleventh night, drinking Buckfast and Frosty Jacks by the bottle, and shouting profanities about the Pope. Forty-feet-high bonfires would be erected, burning effigies of every nationalist politician who ever got on their tits. All in the name of loyalist culture.

  He refilled the paper cup and went back to his desk to consider what was known about the murders, and to identify what was still to be assigned and uncovered. At the beginning of an investigation the objectives were wide ranging and all encompassing. The narrowing of focus would come later. The first priority was to gather all relevant material, though knowing what was significant and what was dross at this stage was virtually impossible. They needed victim statements – not easy with one in ICU and the other in the Shannon Clinic Secure Unit to undergo intensive psychiatric evaluation – and then the exhibits and images, intelligence reports, and a list of offenders who could be potentially active in the area, all needed to be gathered. The details of this ground work needed be logged into the system to allow for gap analysis later on. It was too soon for hypotheses. Christ, they had so much work to do before they reached that stage.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Magee, what’s up?’

  ‘Just letting you know SOCO have signed off the cottage now and Lyons says it will be a couple of days before we get the autopsy report. He doesn’t like the fact that the three bodies were lying so closely together. He’s worried about messing up samples and obscuring ante-mortem trauma, whatever the fuck that is.’

  ‘Right, get back here then. Lots to do.’

  ‘Too right. Overtime will rocket on this one. See you in half an hour or so.’

  It was time to check on Iona Gardener and Dylan Wray. It took a few attempts to get through to someone with any knowledge of Dylan Wray in ICU. Eventually, Danny got Dylan’s assigned nurse, Paula, on the phone and she told him Dylan was still critical – he wasn’t conscious, so an interview was out of the question. A call to Constable Maggie Bolton told him that Iona Gardener had been transferred to ward J at the Shannon Unit. She was currently heavily sedated and under the care of Dr Helen Gracie. Again, no use to him. He felt a tight knot of frustration pull at his guts. They both needed to wake up and tell him what they knew.

  CHAPTER 14

  Home had meant darkness. A place of threat and worry, a drawn out war of retaliation. Eerie entryways and narrow alleys of bins and gurgling drains, where terrorists dealt out knee-cappings. Belfast had been a grey place with flashes of anger and violence so brutal it took your breath away. Rose could remember listening to the local news, waiting to see which side of the community had been slain, knowing that revenge would come the following week. A cycle of us and them, fear and distrust cloaking every conversation. News of hi-jackings and buses being burnt out, families ordered out of their homes, taxi drivers being made to deliver bombs to police stations, teenage boys moving weapons, and punishment beatings dealt out within a warped alternative justice system.

  Life seemed to change – full of possibilities for the first time – when she met Scott, her first boyfriend. To Rose, aged sixteen, he seemed almost from a different planet. He lived in leafy East Belfast and attended Methodist College, where the posh Protestants went to school. His world was rugby, house parties, ski holidays, and family dinners at the golf club. Rose made sure he knew little of where she came from beyond the fact that she attended a Catholic grammar school. They weren’t from the same community, but he didn’t seem to mind. Rose marvelled at his lack of caution. His openness and his innocence. His world didn’t have riots at the top of the street. Undercover police cars clocking your every movement. Fear and mistrust.

  Scott was the eye opener. His life of safety and comfort inspired Rose to seek something better for herself. She was smart enough to know that she couldn’t carve out such a life in Belfast. She’d have to escape to make it different. She’d have to reinvent herself and never look back.

  When Evelyn got wind of her plans, all hell broke loose.

  ‘No daughter of mine will be seen running around with a Prod. Do you forget where you come from, what sacrifices we’ve made to fight the Brits?’ Always with the Brits.

  The notion of Scott ever seeing how she lived in the terrace house in the Markets filled her with dread. Not that it was shame of where she came from; no, it was more a sense of embarrassment that her family were so trapped in their thinking. That her mother, in particular, was bigoted and spiteful.

  Rose knew that by moving to England, her mother would be infuriated and that her heart
would harden further. Maybe she did do it to spite her. Looking back, Rose could see every decision she had made had been chosen in defiance of Evelyn.

  It was the Mulligan mystery, coupled with Iona’s false confession, that sucked Rose in and demanded that she listen, hear the voices whispering secrets and asking questions. She could’ve been one of the Mulligan five, the abandoned children. Or her mother could’ve been the one orchestrating the disappearance. When Danny said he knew the Mulligan angle would reel Rose in, he’d no idea. As far as he was concerned, the challenge of a cold case caught up in the midst of a fresh murder hunt was temptation enough. But it went deeper than that. She’d lived in the same area that the Mulligan family had lived. She understood the insidious whisperings of suspicion.

  Rose glanced at her watch. Late afternoon and she still hadn’t formulated a concrete plan of action. She knew that a current murder case had a set of procedures clearly laid out for officers to follow: forensics, feet on the ground talking to people, gathering vital information and physical evidence. A cold case was different. Any potential witnesses could be long dead, or their memories fogged by time. There was always a possibility of using technology that had been absent during the original investigation, but with no concrete evidence to examine with this case, this option was out.

  There was also the fact that sometimes the original detectives assigned to the case were overworked or neglectful. If McCausland was to be believed, the original case simply didn’t merit action. Missing mothers weren’t high priority at that time. Belfast had other concerns.