‘Aye, I’m grand. What are you having?’
‘A tonic water will do me, thanks.’
He ordered their drinks and they carried them over to a corner away from the main bar area. Rose took the glass of tonic water from him.
‘Thanks,’ she said, taking a sip.
‘That weather would give anyone a thirst. It’s to change at the weekend. I heard thunder and lightning is the forecast. It’ll clear the air.’
‘Yeah, I heard the same. Still, it’s been good while it lasted.’
He put the green bottle of Heineken he’d ordered to his lips and swallowed.
‘I’m not used to being in a room with all my family at the same time. I find it all …’ he paused, looking for the right word. ‘Forced.’
Rose nodded. ‘Families are complicated at the best of times. Throw in what you have all gone through and it must be extremely hard.’
He nodded.
‘We struggle. Keeping in touch is one thing, but we can’t be doing with family occasions. It’s never felt right. There was one Christmas we talked about spending it together, but by the time Christmas Eve came along we all wised up and realised it was a bad idea.’
‘Yeah, I can appreciate it would be difficult. So, do you work, Paddy?’
‘Aye, here and there. You got to have a bit of money to get by.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Gym work, mostly. Personal training, like. That, and sometimes I do a bit of maintenance on buildings for a mate of mine. He’s a roofer, but he gets asked to do all sorts and I give him a hand for a few quid.’
‘How old were you, Paddy, when your mum went missing?’ She knew, of course, but it was a way in, to get him to talk about the past.
‘I was eight. Only just made my holy communion the year before. Me and Lizzie were all dressed up for the occasion. That was the last happy memory I have of my mother and my family. Can you imagine what that’s like?’
‘Afterwards, you were adopted by Linda and Alan Atwood, isn’t that right?’
‘Yeah, they all talked like Lizzie and me were the lucky ones to get taken on by a married couple, and be brought up like their own. Teachers, they were. Supposed to be good, upstanding people. Went to mass on a Sunday and helped out at parish events. Well, let’s just say it didn’t work out for me.’
‘Lizzie stayed with them, even after you had made a formal complaint of being abused?’
He shrugged. ‘That was her choice.’
Rose made a mental note to follow up with Lizzie. See what her take on this was. Why had the authorities not intervened and taken Lizzie away, too, if the Atwoods had been abusive?
‘What’s your theory on all this?’
He downed the last of his bottle of beer. ‘My theory?’
‘Yeah, what do you think happened to your mother?’
‘What da fuck do I know? She skedaddled, vanished into thin air, and there was nothing left but a black hole of where she’d once existed. D’imigh sí gan tásc ná turairisc: disappeared without a trace.’
‘So, you don’t have a sense of what might have happened?’
‘Either my Da and us weeuns drove her to top herself, or someone whacked her. There’s not many other likely scenarios.’
‘Was there someone you thought would be likely to want to harm her?’
He stared at his empty beer bottle. ‘I need a piss and another beer. What about you?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll have another – the same again – but here, take this. It’s my round.’ She handed him a ten-pound note for the drinks.
When he came back he looked agitated. His eyes had that glazed look and he had a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’d obviously taken a snort of coke in the toilets.
‘Here’s your drink,’ he said, setting it down in front of Rose.
Within minutes, he was rambling on about the state of the Northern Ireland assembly. The lack of quality politicians. ‘At least back in the day people like McGuinness and Paisley had convictions. You knew where you stood with them. This shower of shites, well they’re only interested in collecting their fat pay packets. To hell with the average man and woman on the streets. Don’t you agree?’
Rose wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. She decided to call time on their meeting.
‘Paddy, I have to head off now, but if you can think of anything I should know about your mother, please call me.’ She reached into her bag and retrieved a card with her contact details, setting it down beside his beer.
‘Aye, right, no problem.’
She went out into the street, relieved to be out of his company.
CHAPTER 46
A few phone calls had led Danny to Iona Gardener’s university advisor. She didn’t appear to be too put out to meet him on a Saturday morning, so he headed to the university quarter, pulled into Rugby Road, and found a space to park. Come October, when the students were back at the university, parking would be a nightmare, but for now he was grateful that he didn’t have to abandon his car a mile away and walk. He didn’t have time to waste.
He intended for it to be a quick chat before heading back to the station to give the rest of the team a bollocking. If they were clocking up overtime, he wanted to be getting the most out of them. Managing the team was a challenge. Instinctively, he wanted to be liked, to be everyone’s mate, but he knew that was professional suicide.
The university area was peaceful. The tall sycamore trees provided shade as he made his way past the red brick Victorian houses, each identical except for the colours of their doors. He couldn’t help peering in through their sash windows and catching glimpses of bookcases and comfortable armchairs. It all looked genteel and academic; a million miles away from his rural upbringing of pig shit and turf.
Professor Danielle Wheeler met Danny at the entrance to the school of social sciences – a modern addition to the Gothic style of the main Lanyon building – situated within the quadrangle overlooking an immaculate grassy square. Professor Wheeler was in her fifties and looked trim and fit. Her platinum grey hair was cut short and spiky and she was dressed in jeans and a faded green T-shirt with a slogan proclaiming something about the climate crisis.
‘Detective Stowe, come on up to my office.’
Danny followed her up the two flights of stairs. She offered him a glass of water but he declined and took a chair next to her desk, the surface of which was clear except for a laptop and a few text books.
‘Professor Wheeler, I know my colleague, DS King, spoke to you on the phone, but I felt it might be useful to meet in person.’
‘Yes, such a tragedy. Iona is due to graduate from her post-graduate diploma in the autumn. I’ve checked her exams and she is sitting on high marks. She still has her dissertation to submit, but I was her supervisor and know that she was producing exemplary work.’
‘Forgive me, but what was it she was studying? Social work, was it?’
‘Social work and policy studies. It’s a professional certification. I’ve no doubt she will find work straight away. She has a nice way about her. Very capable, with the right attitude, too. Not everyone is cut out for clinical work, but I’m certain Iona would manage to deal with whatever the job threw at her.’
‘What area of study was she interested in?’
‘Her dissertation was based on cross-generational trauma – the notion that even in a largely peaceful time, young people in Northern Ireland are affected by the violence of the past.
‘The theory behind it was that we have a whole generation of young people born after the cease fire, yet they still feel compelled in some way to express their identity in terms of the culture inherited from their parents. She was keen to understand how the conflict of the past affected young people and her work was making a study of how some young people in socially deprived areas continue to perpetuate the sectarian prejudices that have marred our society.’
‘Sounds worthy.’
She nodded. ‘We are only beginning to under
stand the full impact of the conflict on our communities. The trauma, the crisis management way of living … it all takes its toll. Even when the guns are silent.’
‘You weren’t aware of Iona being in any kind of trouble?’
She shook her head. ‘Not that I can think of. I did take the liberty of looking at her student file after your colleague called me, and there is mention of Iona making use of the student welfare and counselling service. I don’t know if there was a particular issue, but she did have a few sessions with one of our counsellors. That’s not an unusual occurrence though. The demand for student counselling has rocketed in recent years.’
Danny nodded. Angela Duffy had mentioned that at the Shannon Clinic. ‘I’ll take the details of this counselling service if you have them handy.’
‘Of course, I’ll jot down the number and the address.’
Ten minutes later, Danny was back out in the hot sun, about to leave the campus, when he received a call from Jamie King.
‘Stowe here, what’s up?’
‘Dylan Wray has died.’
CHAPTER 47
Back at her apartment, Rose closed the curtains against the blank expanse of the night. At times, the view across the harbour made her feel vulnerable, as if she were being watched, even though she knew that was ridiculous. The cost of her upbringing was a sense of wariness. Always expecting the worst and having to second guess every movement. That sense had only been heightened since returning to Northern Ireland. The need to check under a car for devices, varying routes to work, and always being watchful hadn’t disappeared overnight for her colleagues as dissidents proved to be a continuing threat. Although police stations looked less like fortified military bases, there were still real challenges to working in a society used to seeing the police as the enemy.
Rose sat on the sofa, kicked off her shoes and yawned. Tiredness felt like a familiar old friend, always hanging around. Yet, despite the tiredness, her brain felt wired, as if she needed to remember something she had forgotten. The case was getting to her. When she was at university she’d had the same feeling when it came to studying, that she could never do enough to feel satisfied and confident in her ability.
Later, when she was lost to sleep, her phone rang. Instantly, she knew it was Danny. Who else would be calling her at this ridiculous hour of the morning? For a second she felt regret – or was it sadness – that life beyond work didn’t exist for her. Usually, she would say that’s the way she had designed it, but lately, there had been a sense of missing out. That she had limited her life by choosing work over relationships.
‘What’s up?’
‘Did I wake you, Rose?’
‘It’s 5 a.m. Yes, you woke me,’ she said, though she knew whatever he had woken her for would be worth it.
‘I’ve been thinking about those dolls hanging in the tree.’
‘Yeah, what about them?’
‘We’ve been working on the assumption that they alluded to the five people in the cottage. What if they don’t represent them? What if the dolls are the Mulligan children?’
Rose sat up and rubbed her eyes, her other hand pressing the phone against her ear.
‘A doll for each abandoned child?’
‘Exactly. It makes sense. Whoever went into the cottage armed with a knife did so in a planned manner. They knew who they were after and obviously had a reason. The graffiti and the five dolls are messages.’
Rose leaned against her pillows. ‘There’s something else that’s been bothering me. Don’t you think that it’s a strange coincidence that the Mulligan case came up for review just before the murders?’
She could practically hear him thinking, turning it over in his mind.
‘Who could have known?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Meet me in an hour?’
‘Okay, I’ve got to feed the chickens first so it will be closer to seven.’
‘Chickens?’
‘I’m down home with the parents, got to do my bit.’
The roads were quiet. Not a sinner up at this hour of the morning on a Saturday. Rose had agreed to meet Danny off-site, away from the station. Sometimes you needed to take a breather, to think outside the box and being somewhere different helped.
‘Right, here you go,’ said Danny, handing her a sausage sandwich, brown sauce leaking out the side.
‘Thanks, I think. I’m sure I’ll regret eating that the minute it’s down.’
‘The least I could do after waking you up so early this morning.’ The motorway café was starting to catch some passing trade. People stopping in to grab a coffee before they embarked on the rest of their journey.
He sat opposite her and she took a sip of her coffee, savouring the tarry taste and the mellow warmth it offered.
‘Ahh.’ Danny sighed, drinking his own. ‘Nothing like the first coffee of the day. You can’t bate it with a big stick. Pure nectar. Right, get this down us and then to business,’ he said, biting into his sandwich. ‘I think we need to consider where the decision to look into the Eden Mulligan case came from. The case file had been flagged up before the Dunlore murders. Who made that call to McCausland and why now?’
‘Could be a coincidence, timing wise,’ Rose suggested.
‘It’s possible, but we don’t do coincidences in this job. Too convenient. McCausland said the call came from the very top. He said that pressure to look into the case had come from the first minister and deputy first minister. He implied it was to be a cursory exercise, to appease certain sections.’
Danny drained his coffee. ‘The dolls and the Mulligan graffiti scrawled on the wall aren’t enough on their own to make this about Eden’s disappearance. There has to be another link. Something more substantial that we are missing.’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking of McCausland’s assertion that back in the day things were different, that they had bigger concerns than a runaway mother. But who decided she had run away, and why were they so quick to dismiss the case as not being worth investigating fully? They are the questions that bother me most.’
‘Any luck with the priest?’
‘St Aloysius’ parish secretary wasn’t able to help, but she did say that there was an association of retired Irish priests based in the diocese. Maybe that’s where I need to go with my inquiries.’
‘What next, then?’
‘First, you buy me another coffee, then we go visit Iona again.’
CHAPTER 48
‘I hate these places,’ Danny said, turning to Rose as he showed his ID to a camera tracking their movements in the front lobby. ‘They give me the creeps,’ he whispered as Rose shot him a look telling him to behave himself.
The glass doors opened, permitting them to enter the coolness of the reception area, where they were met by an orderly wearing a uniform of a navy-blue polo shirt and dark trousers. He introduced himself as Adam and asked them to follow him to the day room. ‘Dr Duffy is expecting you,’ he said in a broad Ballymena accent. ‘What’s it like out there? Sun still shining?’
‘Aye, it’s going to be another baking hot day, for sure.’ Danny said, following him down the corridor.
They were a taken to a cosy room set up with sofas and a television, wide glass doors leading out to a patio area filled with an assortment of potted plants. The scene looked like it had been set up to resemble a regular living room instead of a hospital setting, but there was no disguising the cameras in the corners and the one-way mirror built into the far wall.
Iona sat perfectly still, her back straight, looking into space with a slightly dazed expression. She wore a simple white cotton blouse and a dark blue skirt, which at once made Danny think of a nun. They weren’t exactly the kind of clothes you’d expect a young woman to choose and were generic enough to suggest someone had bought them for her.
‘Iona, how are you? It’s us back again. We need to talk to you about what happened. Do you think that would be okay?’ Rose asked.
&nb
sp; She gave a slight nod. Rose looked to Danny, as if to tell him to let her take the lead, and they sat on the sofa opposite Iona.
‘Is it okay if we record our conversation?’
She nodded.
‘How about you tell us again what you know, what you think happened?’ Rose said, after turning the recording device on.
‘I don’t really remember it all. I’ve told you already. Just bits and pieces. Parts of the night are coming back to me but I don’t want to remember. It’s too awful.’ Her voice was childlike, high pitched and quivering.
‘That’s okay. Whatever you can tell us will be good. A small detail might seem insignificant, but could actually make all the difference.’
She nodded.
‘Okay, what is the last thing you can recall before the hospital?’ Rose leaned close.
‘Running. Running on grass, hurting my feet, tripping over a root and being so frightened. But it’s strange, I’m not frightened for me. It’s the others. I know they are in danger and all I can do is run. I can’t save them. I don’t even try.’ Her breathing was ragged, her skin waxy and pale.
‘It’s okay, Iona, we know this is hard, but you are doing really well.’ Rose spoke quietly as she leaned across and took Iona’s hands, looking into her eyes. Danny willed himself to sit back and let Rose do her thing. He itched to wade in and ask the questions, but he respected Rose’s authority in dealing with Iona. They still didn’t know for sure if she was a victim or a suspect.
‘We need you to try and remember who you were running from. Who was in the cottage?’ Rose continued.
They had to tread carefully, if Iona shut down or did anything to harm herself again, they wouldn’t get another chance to question her.
She stopped, her eyes wide and staring. ‘I don’t know. I can’t stop myself. I’m hurting them with the knife. Over and over again. There’s blood on my hands. It’s warm.’ She started to cry, shaking and twisting her hands like she was being held by someone and needed to fight them off. ‘I can’t do this. I can’t!’ Her voice was raised, and she looked panic-stricken.
Who Took Eden Mulligan? Page 21