‘Who was in the cottage with you, Iona?’ Rose asked.
‘Olivia, Dylan, Henry, Theo. The squad. That’s what we called ourselves.’
She spoke as if she had all the time in the world.
‘Can you tell me what happened on the night of the twenty-eighth of June?’
She shook her head, her whole body quivering in a quick, sharp shake, like a dog trying to avoid a leash.
Danny sat forward. ‘Do you remember walking to the police station?’
‘No. Did I walk?’
‘We think so. There was no one with you where you appeared in the CCTV footage and you arrived on foot.’
‘My feet were sore and cut up.’ She reached down to rub at her ankle. ‘That must be why.’ She said it as if it had only just occurred to her.
‘You were out of breath and upset when you got to the police station.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yes, they said you were distressed, in a state. Cuts on your arms and hands. Don’t you remember?’
‘Not really.’ She avoided his gaze.
Rose placed her notebook on the table in front of them. ‘Iona, on the night the stabbings happened, where were you?’
‘In the cottage, I think.’ Her voice was low with an edge of something like trepidation.
‘And who was with you?’
‘The squad. All of us.’
‘That’s Olivia, Henry, Dylan and Theo?’
She nodded.
‘Do you recall what you ate that night?’
‘Pasta, I think. Olivia and Dylan probably cooked. We had been out on a long hike, I remember that.’
‘That’s good. So, what time were you out on the hike?’
She shrugged. ‘Early. Maybe ten in the morning.’ She said it almost like a question, as if she wanted reassurance.
‘And where did you walk?’
‘Around the grounds.’
‘Okay. That’s good. So, when do you think you returned to the cottage?’
‘Late afternoon. It was a really sunny day. We ate lunch while we were out. We had packed sandwiches and sat near a stream to eat them. Theo had sunburn along his shoulders. I can remember that.’
‘And after you returned to the cottage, were you all together?’
‘Yes, we were. I can remember Olivia saying she was going to have a shower. Dylan was reading in the garden. Theo and Henry were playing some card game,’ She was staring straight ahead. ‘I don’t know what I was doing.’
‘That’s okay. You’re doing great. You said there was someone else in the cottage. Who was that?’
‘Me. But I wasn’t me, I was different somehow.’
Rose leaned forward. ‘Iona, there is something we need to know – do you have any connection to Eden Mulligan?’
She started and shook her head.
Eden Mulligan disappeared in 1986 and we think it might have something to do with the killing of your friends.’
Her bottom lip quivered, making Danny think of a child moments before it began to cry.
‘I can’t remember anything else. I’m sorry, but I can’t.’ Her voice was raised, panic creeping in.
She lifted her head and looked directly at Rose. ‘There is only one thing I am certain of. I do know that I did it. I killed them. I just don’t know why.’
CHAPTER 43
‘So, Dr Lainey, making yourself at home?’ Malachy Magee appeared at the doorway of Rose’s office.
‘Doing my best. Come on in. And you can call me Rose. I don’t need a title.’
‘In that case, call me Mal. Malachy makes me feel like my mother is around.’
Rose laughed. ‘Take a seat.’
‘How are you finding being back in Belfast?’ he asked.
‘In some ways it’s like I’ve never left and then I’ll walk through the Cathedral Quarter and see the place alive with revelry. The city centre was still pretty much a ghost town at night when I was a teenager.’
‘Aye, the young ones don’t know how good they’ve got it these days. So, how are you finding the case?’ Malachy asked. He seemed genuinely interested. Rose had the impression that Danny rated Magee despite his tendency to clock watch and head home as soon as he could.
‘All good. I’m dredging through the Mulligan case notes, checking to see if we’ve missed anything.’
‘Bad business that case. What are your thoughts on the original investigation?’
‘The family were fobbed off. Too many other demands on the RUC to justify a proper inquiry – that’s their story, anyway. A disappeared mother didn’t warrant too much attention.’
‘And we’re expected to pick up the pieces decades later.’
‘The connection with the Dunlore murders certainly demands a full investigation. Something must connect them. So, what are you doing down here?’
‘That would be my doing,’ Danny said, coming in and closing the door behind him. ‘Rose, I want you to talk Mal through Iona’s state of mind. He’s worked with forensic psychologists on other cases and has an interest in this kind of work. Look, here’s the profile Rose drew up.’
He handed Malachy the file and waited while he scanned over everything.
Rose took out her notebook and pen for something to do.
‘Before we begin looking at the report details on Iona, I need you to understand why someone would confess to a crime they clearly didn’t commit,’ Rose said.
‘First of all, are you certain she didn’t do it?’ Malachy asked. ‘We all know a confession can appear to be the golden ticket. Why go looking elsewhere if your case ties itself up for you? But we all should remember, a dodgy conviction is worse than no conviction. Sometimes it’s just too good to be true. But in this case, there are just too many improbables. You saw the crime scene. Iona Gardener’s build, height and strength all say that she couldn’t have done it. But was she working with someone or covering for someone? Could she have a connection to Eden Mulligan that she is hiding? That’s what we don’t fully understand yet,’ he said, leaning back in his chair.
Rose took that as her cue to jump in. ‘To create the profile, I have examined the location of the crime, the method of entry, the weapon used, the nature of the attacks and the apparent randomness of the knife entry wounds. All of this helps to gain an understanding of the perpetrator and to give us a sense of what happened in the cottage. Evidence suggests that Iona could not have been our attacker and that she couldn’t have moved the bodies on her own. But we have to ask: is she the accessory or co-conspirator? Was Iona the one to assist the killer?
‘As for the graffiti, when Iona was brought to the hospital originally, she was examined thoroughly and there was no trace of charcoal on her hands or under her nails. And what’s more, a handwriting expert says it was done by someone who is left-handed. Iona is right-handed so, with all of that in mind, we can safely say she didn’t write it. Our next question has to be, what made her think she did it or, at least, why did she claim she did?’
Malachy sighed with exasperation. ‘God, this case is doing my head in. Why is she lying? Who is she protecting?’
‘My assessment of Iona is based on the interview and the reports from her psychiatric doctor and the mental health team. In a state of high anxiety such as fear or terror, the prefrontal cortex can be compromised. Sequencing information – the timelines, the place and layout of where she has been – is impaired, damaging her memories. It can take years for this to heal,’ Rose said.
‘We all know innocent people can get locked up for crimes they haven’t committed and I’m not just talking about the Guildford pub bombings type of scenario.’ Danny commented.
‘Yeah, but usually it’s following an old-fashioned Castlereagh-type interrogation, or they are coerced into it.’ Rose looked at Danny, their eyes locking for just a second before she glanced down at her notebook.
Malachy walked over to the window. ‘Sometimes people want the attention, or the notoriety of being involved in a big crime. Maybe
Iona falls into that category. She’s attention seeking.’
‘In my experience, a lot of people say they committed a crime just to get out of the interrogation room, thinking they can retract their statement at any time – the complaint false confessors – or as you say, Mal, they just want the attention. We’ve all seen it in high-profile cases, where there’s a lot of media attention. I have occasionally come across someone who truly believes they’re guilty though. They internalise the crime, and persuade themselves that they are responsible. This is the category I think Iona falls into.’
She paused.
‘In Iona’s case, I believe she is confabulating memories. She has claimed responsibility for crimes she did not commit, without pressure from the police – no coercion or long, drawn out interrogation. She walked into the station, apparently unprompted, and said she had committed the murders. Our next questions have to be: is this out of a desire to protect the real perpetrator? Is she deluded and suffering from some sort of psychotic episode? Or is this some sort of self-punishment to pay for either real or imagined past transgressions?’
‘Exactly where do we go from here then?’ asked Malachy.
‘We can assume that whatever happened in that cottage was traumatic for Iona to witness. Her memory of what transpired may be distorted beyond reality at present but, thankfully, this is usually not a permanent state. I think you will find that as the days go on, she will come to the realisation that she is not the murderer, even if she never regains a full understanding of what happened.’
Suddenly Rose turned to Danny. ‘Maybe she knew him.’
‘Who, the killer?’ he asked.
Malachy put his hands behind his neck. ‘Yeah, that could be why she wasn’t so badly hurt.’
‘It would explain her sense of responsibility. Her connection with the killer is the reason she is still alive,’ Rose said.
‘If she knew him, she could’ve let him into the cottage. She didn’t feel he was a risk. But why spare her, and why is she taking the blame?’ Danny said.
‘The Mulligan case – did Iona say anything about it to you?’ Malachy asked.
‘No. We’ve nothing more than the graffiti, but there has to be something more. We just haven’t found it yet,’ Danny said.
CHAPTER 44
Rose felt the thin cotton of her T-shirt stick to her back. She longed for a shower to wash the grime of the day away, but she was hours from getting home. On her desk, she spread out interview transcripts from the Mulligan children. They had each given her their version of what had happened. When they realised that their mother was gone, they initially tried to cope alone, not informing anyone, hoping that she would be back, that she had just popped out for a minute. Cormac had been adamant that she had been taken and had begged them to contact the police. The others had persuaded him to wait. They had no means of reaching their father and Rose suspected that they didn’t have an expectation of him coming back to care for them.
A half-eaten chicken and avocado sandwich, bought at lunchtime, lay drying up and curling at the edges on her desk. The air was still and the slice of sunlight that came through the high-up window had reached the far side of the office. Her stomach lurched, reminding her that she needed to eat. Her watch showed that it was gone 7.25 p.m. She thought of people with normal jobs, clocking off at six, going home to eat with their loved ones, spending a couple of hours catching up on rubbish TV or mundane chores, something nice like cutting the grass or deadheading flowers. A night like this called to be outdoors. She’d thought of going to see Kaitlin, sitting on the patio, sipping a cool glass of prosecco with her family around. That would never be her life though. And she didn’t know if that made her sorry or glad.
She had enough self-awareness to know that the job served as a handy out. An excuse to opt out of playing happy families, settling down and getting married. There was something she recognised in Danny that told her he needed the excuse as well. He drowned the pain of his disastrous marriage by clocking up hours on the job. That sense of being fully awake, present and ready, could only be achieved if you gave the job all you had. There was no room for anyone – or anything – else.
She thought of the Mulligans. How their lives had been consumed and damaged by the absence of their mother. The girls had made something of themselves. Lizzie, in particular, had done well for herself. She had forged a career as student counsellor and was married to a builder – a self-made man by all accounts, who specialised in commercial properties. But the boys were rudderless, each one finding their way through the murkiness of life without the relief of snatched moments of joy. She couldn’t imagine what that would do to a person.
Paddy’s testimony was the slimmest of them all. He held back in ways that Cormac and Eamonn hadn’t. In the family meeting, he had appeared troubled, struggling to stay in the room and listening to the talk of the investigation. He hadn’t wanted any part in the proposed dig. ‘What would it change?’ he had asked, his words slightly slurred by drink.
‘Awk Paddy, come on,’ Eileen said. ‘It would at least give us some sense of closure.’
‘Fuck closure. What in the hell good is closure to any of us? It won’t bring her back and it won’t right the wrongs of the past, will it?’
Eileen shrugged and looked away.
He had approached Rose when they were finishing off and leaving the Europa, putting his hand on her shoulder to catch her before she left. ‘Look, I’m sorry about being late an’ all. I’m not the best when it comes to these here type of things. Sometimes I think we’d all be better off just forgetting. If the doctors could give me a tablet to wipe my memories I’d take it. How fucking sad is that?’
Reading his transcript, Rose felt compelled to talk to him again. Of all the siblings, he was the one she had the least handle on. The sisters Eileen and Lizzie had been more forthcoming. They had been keen to follow through with the new dig and had been insistent on Rose pushing for more to be done. They had managed to salvage something after the wasteland of their childhoods. The boys hadn’t fared so well.
Father Edmund Ryan’s story also wasn’t complete. Rose felt that she should at least try to pick up the lead and see where it took her. Father Dominic on the Antrim Road had been a bit of help. If Rose wanted to dig deeper she had to go to the source. Ryan may be dead, but the church he had sought shelter in and served in was still standing. She dialled the number for Father Ryan’s church in Boston and held her breath, hoping for the break she needed.
‘Hello. I am calling from the Police Service of Northern Ireland.’
CHAPTER 45
The package bore a US postmark and had the word ‘private’ stamped across the top. Rose carried it into her office and opened it to find a typed letter from Marni, the secretary from the Boston parish house who Rose had spoken to on the phone. The letter stated that Marni had done some research on Father Edmund Ryan and had discovered he wasn’t dead, but living in a retirement home somewhere in Bray, Ireland. Rose took in a sharp breath. If Ryan was still alive, she had a chance of questioning him.
But why did Father Dominic say he was dead? She paused, trying to gather her thoughts. Was Father Dominic protecting Ryan? Or had he been misled? Either way, she had to try to track down Ryan. The package included photocopies of documents showing that Edmund Ryan had resided in the parish in Boston for twenty-one years. He had assisted the parish priest, but never moved beyond that role. A priest as charismatic as Katy Carberry had painted him surely would have risen to the position of parish priest at some stage. Rose wondered if he had been blocked by senior officials in the climb to a more senior role, and what the reasons for keeping him contained might have been.
She wondered if her mother had known Father Ryan. The idea of a link between Evelyn and this case had niggled at Rose before but her suspicion was growing stronger now. Belfast wasn’t a big city and it wasn’t unknown for women to take up active roles with the paramilitaries, a role which may have brought her mother into cont
act with the priest. She wondered if her mother had been alive, would she have questioned her. Asked her if she had known Eden Mulligan. Rose shuddered. She had waited too long to do what she should have done from day one on this case – put Evelyn’s details into the system and tell Danny about her mother’s connection to the paramilitaries.
Before that, she had a meeting set up with Paddy Mulligan.
Convincing him to see her hadn’t been easy. He had the same reluctance that Eamonn and Cormac had displayed, and there was also an edge of something else. Some undercurrent of resistance that Rose had put down to distrust of the police and the authorities. After all, he and his family had no reason to place their faith in Rose. She got that, but in the absence of anyone else fighting their corner, she failed to see what they had to lose by working with her.
They had arranged to meet in Bittles bar, a flatiron-style red brick building in the city centre. Rose walked through the narrow door and found it was a traditional pub, all dark wood and faux leather-topped stools sitting snuggly around wooden tables. It was one of those Belfast pubs that had managed to ride the dark days of the Troubles and even survive the hipster brigade. It has retained its worn-in pub vibe, not trying too hard to please anyone, offering food, a great selection of beers on draught and a cocktail menu. In spite of the balmy day outside, a fire was lit in the grate. A lone fiddler played diddly dee music to keep the tourists happy, while the rest of the crowd got on with their afternoon of drinking. Paintings of famous Northern Irish writers, poets, politicians and sports people decorated the walls, and the clientele looked to be regular fixtures, old men nursing pints.
She scanned the place and found Paddy standing at the bar.
‘Paddy, how are you?’ Rose said, moving in next to him.
Who Took Eden Mulligan? Page 20