Rose let Katy continue.
‘She had a way of walking that drew attention, made you aware of how she carried herself. If it was a dreary day, she seemed to brighten the room. The type of woman who, given different circumstances, could have had a life of luxury. You could almost believe she had been born for it. Instead she ended up with Geordie Mulligan. He was a good-looking fella, don’t get me wrong, but mean with the drink in him. You wouldn’t want to cross him. That’s why, when Eden disappeared, plenty thought he had something to do with it.’
‘Did you suspect him?’
‘No, not for a second. Geordie hadn’t been around for a while. When he came back the whole street always knew about it. We only seen him when he had a bit of money. Liked to flash it around, as if he was a big fella. Of course, it never lasted long. He’d go down to Mick Mooney’s pub and buy drinks for all his old mates, roll home drunk and cause a right merry carry on.’
‘Was he violent with Eden?’
‘Listen, I lived next door, and the walls might as well have been made of cardboard. I could hear all her records. She loved a bit of music: Madonna, David Bowie, Queen and the likes. Even the older stuff like Bob Dylan and the Stones. I could sing the lyrics along with her if I wanted to. Come nine o’clock, when the kids were all off to bed, the CD player would go on. I expect she was lonely without Geordie when he was away.
‘So sure, they had their fights. The odd plate smashed and plenty of f-ing and blinding, but he wouldn’t have hit her. If you ask me, Eden had the upper hand. Geordie worshipped her. Trouble was, he worshipped his whiskey just as much. Sometimes the drink won.’
Rose thought of the young wife dealing with a drunk husband. Maybe he had got heavy-handed. ‘Were there any rumours about Eden and Geordie? Anyone say that he was violent?’
Katy set her cup down on the tray. ‘Oh there were plenty of them but none of them ever involved Geordie beating her. The stories that were told were more concerned with painting Eden in a bad light.’
‘In what way?’
Rose could see Katy was enjoying the reminiscing. ‘People said there was an inevitability about it all. That she’d brought it on herself with her stuck-up attitude. They’d say it was the way she talked, her accent – softer than the ones round here – the way she dressed as if she’d style oozing out of her every pore. Watching her walk down the street was like catching a glimpse of one of them supermodels of the time – Cindy Crawford. That glamour, sophistication, and self-assuredness. Afterwards, I noticed no one was rushing to paint her as a saint. Funny how they didn’t say much to her when she was alive, but they had plenty to say about her once she was gone. It was like a mantle to protect themselves. It was as if she’d brought the disappearance on herself; as if she was getting what she deserved. That way then they’d be safe.’
She lifted her teacup and took another mouthful.
‘Belfast back then was nothing but a broken landscape of red brick terrace houses, but there was beauty beneath the façade of grime. If you knew where to look for it, you could find it. For some it was in music. Back in my day, there were backroom clubs where bands played, and you could see the likes of Van Morrison, starting out on his career, for a few shillings. Others found it in a boxing club; no one caring what religion you were born into, only that you followed the rules of the sport. Eden, well, she found her own way out.
‘Some said she’d a married man on the side, others said she got all dolled up to stand on street corners, but when you live right next door you get to know a person. If she’d been up to anything I’d have known it. There was never anything to suggest that she had another man on the go. My husband Charlie, God rest his soul, used to say that no good could come from a woman looking like that living without a man. I suppose he was right in the end.’
‘So, you never saw anyone of interest coming and going from the house? What about extended family?’
‘No, from what I heard, she came from Portadown or somewhere. There was talk of her being Protestant, but she brought the kids up in the Catholic faith. There was no contact with her family, as far as I know.’
‘What about friends?’
‘None that I knew of, apart from Father Ryan, that is … if you could call him a friend. He was a lovely priest. He was from Sligo originally. He was like a breath of fresh air coming into St Malachy’s Parish.’ She took another sip of her tea and settled back into the sofa again.
‘Right, where was I? Oh yes, Father Ryan. He took an interest in all the kids, set up a boxing club and had a dance organised for the last Friday in every month. Really brought people together. He would call into Eden’s house often enough. Take a cup of tea and talk to the wee ones. I thought he took pity on her being without a husband, and that maybe he was keeping an eye on her. Many a time she’d say what a great priest he was, how he made the mass worth going to. Even if it was true that she was from the other side, she went occasionally for the kids. We all loved him. He moved parish eventually.’
‘Where did Father Ryan move to after he left St Malachy’s?’ Danny asked, making a note.
‘There was talk he had gone to America, some parish in Boston, but I couldn’t say for sure.’
She sat forward suddenly. ‘Hang on a minute, I have an old box of stuff from back then. There might be some photographs in it.’ Katy left the living room and Rose could hear her opening and closing cupboard doors in her bedroom.
‘Here it is.’ She returned carrying an old biscuit tin and sat it down on the sofa between her and Rose.
‘Oh look, them’s my wee ones. Angela, Michael and Bernie; all grown up now with families of their own.’ She showed Rose the old photograph of her children. She rummaged through the tin, discarding photographs, newspaper cuttings, and other snippets of her life – a memorial card, a legal document of some sort, a receipt.
‘Look, here it is. This is what I was looking for.’ It was an old St Malachy’s parish newsletter.
‘There, that’s Father Ryan,’ she said, pointing to the priest, who was standing with a group of young children around him. ‘That’s one of Eden Mulligan’s children there.’ She pointed to the smallest boy, standing in shorts and knee-high socks. ‘Yes, that’s wee Eamonn, standing beside Father Ryan.’
Rose looked at the black and white photograph. The priest stood in his black vestment, smiling to the camera, with his arms spread wide around the huddle of children.
‘Who are the other children in the photo?’
‘Let me see, that would be John-Joe Conlon, Sean Healy and Shirley McMullan. They must have all been on a trip or something. Every now and then the parish council would take the youngsters away for the day to a park or a local beach.’
Belfast had been a pit of savagery and subterfuge in the seventies and eighties so there was something unnerving in looking at these photographs of normal life. Rose forced herself to bring her thoughts back to Eden Mulligan and focus on the case.
‘Was Eden very religious?’ Danny asked, handing the photograph back to Katy.
‘No, I wouldn’t say she was. No more than the rest of us. She took the children to mass the odd Sunday, like I said, but we all did. It was expected of us back then. You felt that you had to pray to God to keep your family protected. You did the right thing, took them to make their first holy communion and the rest of it. It was our safety net. Not like nowadays, where the young ones hardly bother crossing the chapel threshold.
‘I’d say Eden wasn’t particularly religious. It was more that she liked to be seen chatting to the priest in her doorway, making sure all the neighbours got a good look. Being seen with him gave her a bit of respectability, especially with her coming from the other side, but I’d say she liked him too. He wasn’t like the others. More down to earth and involved in the community, like.’
Danny looked up from his notepad. ‘Can you think of any reason Eden would have been frightened for her safety?’
‘No, I can’t. If she had been in trouble I’d
like to think she would have asked for help. None of us would have seen anything happen to her. We were a tight wee community. That’s how it was back then. Everyone looking out for everyone else.’
Except when they needed to turn a blind eye, thought Rose.
CHAPTER 23
Rose slipped into the conference room as the briefing was being wrapped up, hoping to go unnoticed. Danny was at the front, pointing to the timeline board and holding the attention of his colleagues. Glancing around for somewhere to sit, Rose clocked a free spot next to Malachy Magee and made her way over to him.
‘All right?’ he said under his breath.
Rose nodded and took the chair next to him.
‘As you can see, we have our work cut out for us,’ Danny said, giving his best impression of being in charge. ‘Keep the channels of communication open and ensure DS Lumen is updated every day with what you’re doing.’
Rose had thought that, given his personality type – conscientious, with intuition playing a major part in how he responded to the world – Danny would be more comfortable playing the wingman role, happy to give the lead to whoever he was working with. She was glad to see him stepping up. He was a good copper. One of the best, she’d bet, though no one was perfect.
The room cleared, leaving Rose and Danny alone.
‘How’s it all going?’ Rose asked.
‘Oh, you know, the usual. Chasing up forensics, dealing with the boss … Same old shite.’
‘How’s it working out with you and Malachy Magee?’
‘Ack, he’s all right. Gets the job done, but he’s not much fun. Knocks off the minute the clock hits seven and runs home as fast as he can to his family. I can’t blame him for wanting a life outside of the job, but cases like this can’t be run watching the clock. You know what it’s like, Rosie. Some of our best work has happened over a pint.’
Rose smiled.
‘Speaking of which, how are you fixed this evening for a catch-up? We can talk cop shop all night if you like.’
‘Sure, but shouldn’t you be getting home to Amy?’
She noticed him flinch ever so slightly, just enough to alert her that something was up.
‘She’s over at her sister’s tonight. No need to hurry home.’
‘Okay then. I could do with bouncing around a few ideas about the case. I’m curious to know what the SOCOs have come up with as well.’
By the time they called it a day and settled down in Madden’s pub in Berry Street, it had gone nine o’clock. Rose was glad of the long hours. Sitting in the soulless apartment all alone wasn’t good for her. It was nice to have someone to talk to instead of settling down with a cheese and ham toastie and nothing but her laptop for company. She wasn’t in the mood for trawling through Netflix.
‘I am starting to get to grips with Eden Mulligan. Who she was. What made her tick. From what Katy Carberry told us, it seems that she was stylish, good looking and liked to keep herself separate from her neighbours but not meaning it in a stand-offish way. I think she was out of their league. Someone with a bit of glamour who dreamt of a different kind of life than the one she had ended up with.’
‘And has any of that thrown any light on what happened to her?’
‘Unfortunately, no. I’m ruling out more than I’m ruling in. Tell me about the cottage case, any leads yet?’
‘Still sifting through the debris. Nothing concrete.’
‘What about the victims’ background and their families?’ Rose asked.
‘All met at university and have recently graduated. Henry appears to be the only one who is close to his family. The others had less interest in going home in between terms. From what we can gather, they were pretty much inseparable around campus. Lived in the same rented house from the end of first year, and although they all studied different subjects they were often seen in the library studying together. A tight wee unit from first year is how they were described by one of the lecturers.’
Rose took a sip of her drink. ‘You’ve been up to the main house and talked to the owners?’
‘Of course I have. What do you take me for? The owners of the main house are Elsie and Oliver McGoldrick. They must be in their late sixties, totally traumatised by the murders happening in their property. They were staying with family in Newry when the murders happened. They were pretty shaken up, but more than keen to answer questions and be of assistance. They rent the cottage out to try to cover the upkeep of the place. They had no idea why “Who Took Eden Mulligan?” was on the wall either. It certainly hadn’t been there before the friends had taken on the lease. There’s no connection that I can identify, yet. Maybe you would like to have a look around and have a chat with the McGoldricks?’
Rose nodded. ‘Yes, definitely.’
‘I’ll go with you tomorrow, if you like. It would do no harm for me to have another word with them.’
‘And the background of the victims? No disgruntled ex-lovers hanging around?’
‘No exes of significance and no stalkers reported. Seems that the group of friends liked to keep to themselves, by all accounts.’ He placed a group photograph of the five friends on the table.
‘This one, Henry Morton,’ he said, pointing to the tall, curly haired man. ‘He’s the one that rented the cottage. Seems that his family has plenty of money and he was planning on going into the family business – some sort of packaging company based in Dungannon. Theo Beckett was doing a funded PhD in some rare engineering topic.’
Rose looked at the young man sitting in the picture. He was wearing round rimmed glasses and smiling, looking every inch like a young professor in training.
‘And Olivia Templeton there’ – he indicated to the good-looking blonde draped over Theo – ‘had just bagged herself a graduate job with one of the big accountancy firms in town. She was to start her new position next week.’
Olivia’s blonde hair was tossed back and her face was tilted, posing for the camera. She looked vibrant and mischievous. Nothing like the bloodied corpse Rose had seen on the bed.
‘Iona Gardener, our confessor, was into journalism, writing for blogs though she was studying social work. Looks like she was working for a new multiplatform website, whatever that is. Dylan Wray was the only one without some sort of plan for the future.’
Dylan was a handsome guy. The type who wore his good looks with ease. Dark haired with swarthy skin and intense eyes.
Five bright graduates. Sparkling lives ahead of them.
Rose lifted the photograph. ‘And there’s nothing on any of them? No minor possession charges, no drunk and disorderly?’
‘Nada, not even a library fine. Even their previous landlord sang their praises. Said he’d never had better tenants. Left the house in better nick than when they’d moved in.’
There was something attractive about them as a group and the idea of their tight-knit circle. Rose had never belonged to a group like that. At uni she had clung to Danny, and had been happy to be part of whichever group he favoured.
‘Why had they rented the cottage?’
‘Apparently they wanted to continue living together after university. The rent was cheap and it is near the motorway for easy access to Belfast or Dungannon, where Henry Morton was going to be working.’
Danny took a sip of his pint. ‘We had a word with some other students on their courses and they all said largely the same thing – they were never rude or stand-offish, but that they kept to themselves. They were rarely seen at parties, and if they did attend, it was always as a unit. We were told they never really mixed with anyone from their courses. Just polite chat before lectures.’
They had no need to, they’d each other, Rose thought. She envied them their exclusivity, their sense of belonging. Rose had never been the popular girl, and if she hadn’t had Danny she’d have been a loner. By choice though. She had learned to keep herself contained and apart. It was safer that way.
They finished their drinks and ordered more.
‘Right,
no more shop talk.’
She looked at Danny, sitting there, so keen to hear how her life had turned out. If he knew the truth, that she had little in her life beyond work, he’d be horrified. The odd one-night stand didn’t amount to enough to talk about. It certainly wasn’t pulse racing stuff. She needed something more but had lost the will to look for it.
She’d come close once, with Leif. He was Danish. Blond and charming. Too nice for her liking. The chasm that lay between them was too great to surmount in the end. The trouble was, he was in her field. He could read her and saw that parts were hidden. He knew that she carried damage and secrets; had told her to sort herself out, seek help. But there’s no fixing without tearing open some wounds and she had little interest in that.
She took a long drink of her gin and tonic. Her relationships were all doomed from the beginning.
‘Not much to tell, really. I’m one cat away from being a crazy cat woman.’
‘You know you can talk to me if you ever need someone to listen,’ he said, moving in close to her.
He looked at Rose with such earnestness that all she could do was laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ For a second he looked like a petulant child, ready to stage a tantrum because he had been embarrassed.
‘You are, you dickhead. Offering me a shoulder to cry on, as if I’m going to wallow in self-pity.’
‘I just mean I’m here as a friend if you need one. Aww forget it, I thought we were mates.’
He looked sad now, as if she had hurt him, and she instantly regretted her flippancy.
‘Ah shit Danny, don’t go all moody on me. We are mates. If I need you, I promise I’ll cry on your shoulder, snot and all.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ It sounded hollow, as if he knew she’d never expose herself in that way, let herself be too involved with him on an emotional level.
Who Took Eden Mulligan? Page 11