The Killing House

by Claire McGowan

  Copyright © 2018 Claire McGowan

  The right of Claire McGowan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2018

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 2825 3

  Cover images: house © Nikolaus Gruenwald/Getty Images; figure © Mark Owen/Arcangel Images; sky © hxdbzxy/Shutterstock; texture © Romashka2/Shutterstock

  Cover by craigfraserdesign.com

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

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  50 Victoria Embankment

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Also By Claire McGowan

  Praise

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Claire McGowan grew up in a small village in Northern Ireland and now lives in London, where she runs an MA in creative writing at City University. THE KILLING HOUSE is Claire’s seventh crime novel, and the sixth in the highly-acclaimed Paula Maguire series. She also writes women’s fiction as Eva Woods.

  About the Book

  When a puzzling missing persons’ case opens up in her hometown, forensic psychologist Paula Maguire can’t help but return once more.

  Renovations at an abandoned farm have uncovered two bodies: a man known to be an IRA member missing since the nineties, and a young girl whose identity remains a mystery.

  As Paula attempts to discover who the girl is and why no one is looking for her, an anonymous tip-off claims that her own long-lost mother is also buried on the farm.

  When another girl is kidnapped, Paula must find the person responsible before more lives are destroyed. But there are explosive secrets still to surface. And even Paula can’t predict that the investigation will strike at the heart of all she holds dear.

  By Claire McGowan and available from Headline

  Paula Maguire series

  The Lost

  The Dead Ground

  The Silent Dead

  A Savage Hunger

  Blood Tide

  The Killing House

  Controlled Explosions (a digital short story)

  Standalone

  The Fall

  Praise

  Praise for the Paula Maguire series:

  ‘Fast paced and engaging’ Evening Echo

  ‘Enthralling . . . evoked wonderfully’ Sunday Mirror

  ‘A gripping and gory read . . . shows McGowan to be a thriller writer of exceptional talent’ Irish Independent

  ‘Fresh and accessible without ever compromising on grit or suspense’ Erin Kelly

  ‘A brilliant portrait of a fractured society and a mystery full of heart stopping twists. Compelling, clever and entertaining’ Jane Casey

  ‘A keeps-you-guessing mystery’ Alex Marwood

  ‘A gripping yarn you will be unable to put down’ Sun

  ‘McGowan’s style is pacey and direct, and the twists come thick and fast’ Declan Burke, Irish Times

  ‘Engaging and gripping’ Northern Echo

  ‘Taut plotting and assured writing . . . a highly satisfying thriller’ Good Housekeeping

  Praise for The Fall:

  ‘There is nothing not to like . . . a compelling and flawless thriller’ S.J. Bolton

  ‘She knows how to tell a cracking story. She will go far’ Daily Mail

  ‘Chills you to the bone’ Daily Telegraph

  ‘Hugely impressive. The crime will keep you reading, but it’s the characters you’ll remember’ Irish Examiner

  ‘Highly original and compelling’ Mark Edwards

  ‘Sharp, honest and emotionally gripping’ Tom Harper

  ‘Stunning. Beautifully written, totally convincing and full of character. Really, really good’ Steve Mosby

  To all my Oxford friends

  Margaret

  1993

  They’d told her, back when she’d first started doing their dirty work, how it was likely to happen. There’d be a knock at the door, hard and demanding, and when you opened it there’d be a bag over your head. That was for two reasons – to stop you seeing them, and to stop them seeing you. So you’d be less human, somehow. Not an ordinary woman in her kitchen, a mother with a daughter due home from school any minute, but a tout, a traitor.

  Then you’d feel rough hands on you, pushing you into a car. They wouldn’t speak to you. They wouldn’t have to: you’d know who they were. And you’d know there was no point in arguing or fighting, because they had no say in what happened to you next. They were just the delivery men.

  Then the car would drive for a while, and if you could see the light under the rough sacking you’d be able to tell you were heading to the country, from the low green shade to the darkening air and the sound of cows and birds, and then the car would bump over a rough track and a cattle grid or two and it would stop. You’d be dragged out, in the same rough way, and you’d be marched and sat down on a hard chair and your hands would be tied with rope, and you’d know from the noises and smells you were in some kind of farmhouse, way out in the country, where no one could hear what they did to you next. And that was when they’d take off the bag and then you would really start to panic because you’d kno
w that if they showed you their faces it was all over for you. You’d pray they had a balaclava on. A balaclava meant there was a chance.

  So far, it had all gone exactly as they’d told her, except that they’d left the bag on for a long time after she’d been pushed into the chair, while she’d watched their feet in heavy boots move about and listened to their low voices rumble. Snatches of words here and there were all she’d caught. What – fecking woman – Paddy. The floor of this place was bare earth, cold and dirty. It made everything echo. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine today had been different. That she hadn’t found the word in the dirt on her car two days back – TOUT – and she hadn’t stayed in the kitchen writing that note to her daughter, and they hadn’t come for her, she’d made it away in time. That Edward had got her away like he’d promised. Or that she could just turn things back to how they were before. Then she’d have been there when Paula came in, standing at the sink asking the usual questions about school, doling out the usual warnings not to eat too many biscuits, not to forget her homework. And later, when PJ trailed back in, stamped with exhaustion from whatever terrible things he’d seen today, she’d maybe have pulled herself together enough to smile and act normal. Her hands might have shaken when she drained the potatoes and she might have switched over from the news to something American with fake recorded laughter, and she might have lain awake beside him until the weary winter dawn crept in, but he wouldn’t have noticed a change in her. Because it had been going on for years now.

  It had been so small at first. She’d glance at confidential papers she was copying in the law office where she worked, the one where they defended so many Republicans. Maybe make another copy and slide it into her handbag; sure no one would notice, and what harm would it do? Slip the copy to Edward, the names and addresses of suspects, people to keep an eye on. They were bad men, even if they were her own side. Murderers. She told herself these small acts – a name here, a nod there – might lead to a better future, where her daughter could grow up safe. Her husband not get killed on the job. When she lay awake at night she saw wee Aidan’s face, at the hospital after they’d shot his father right in front of him. The blankness. Like he’d never be right again. She hadn’t wanted that for Paula, her father dead, her childhood gone, but how was this any better? Her mother taken and bundled up in a car with a sack over her head?

  She began to tremble, from cold and shock. Thinking of her daughter, who would by now have come home and found the house empty and dark, the curtains open. Who’d have read the note left on the worktop. Called the police maybe, called her father. Maybe they were looking for her already. Maybe they were almost here to save her. Of course, even if they did, everything would change – they’d have to run and hide and change their names and leave the country and she’d have to tell PJ what she’d been up to. All of it. Her arms contracted; she’d gone to touch her stomach automatically, but her hands were tied behind her. She was so vulnerable. These men were used to dragging in young fellas, hard and rangy, not middle-aged mothers taken from their kitchens. Maybe they’d go easy on her. She tried to remember had they ever killed women. A few times. Not many. And surely not one who was—

  There were footsteps coming towards her, and a hand on her head, tugging on strands of her hair as the bag came off. She stifled a cry, blinking in the cold light. It was all so stupid. Tied to a chair, of all things. They’d been watching too many gangster films. Someone stood in front of her, blotting out the light from the bare bulb so she couldn’t see their face. A man, of course. A big man, tattoos on his hands, a bomber jacket. Smell of tobacco and bubble gum. Paula always wanted to buy it with her pocket money but Margaret wouldn’t let her, said it looked vulgar to be chewing like a cow. As if that mattered now.

  ‘Margaret,’ the man said. Surprisingly musical. The accent from over the border. ‘I hope they didn’t hurt you.’

  She shook her head, wrong-footed. Maybe this was going to be OK? ‘My daughter . . .’ She could feel the cold of it around her neck, Paula’s cheap little necklace that she’d grabbed off the kitchen counter as they took her. It was all she’d had time for, and for once she was glad her untidy daughter always left everything lying in a trail behind her.

  ‘No one’s going to touch your daughter, come on now. We don’t hurt weans in this organisation.’

  She could have asked did they hurt women but she knew the answer: if they really deserved it, then yes. And she deserved it, no doubt about that.

  He pulled up a stool and moved closer, and she could see his face now her eyes had adjusted to the gloom. He was a good-looking man. A full head of black hair, fine soft lips like a woman, sharp blue eyes. Not what she’d expected; a thug maybe, with a broken nose and shaved head.

  That was when Margaret realised she could see his face, and that meant he wasn’t wearing a balaclava, and that meant she was in much, much more trouble than she’d even been afraid of. That meant she probably wasn’t going to make it out of this alive.

  Chapter One

  London, 2014

  Eight million, five hundred and thirty-nine thousand. That was the number of people in the city she was staring down at from her tenth-floor window, give or take a few thousand. So many people she couldn’t even absorb it, the sheer number. Among those millions, what were the chances she could find one in particular? Was her mother here – had she been here in London all along? Not dead for twenty years in an unmarked grave, but alive and walking the same city streets her daughter had crossed a hundred times?

  Paula spun her wheely chair away from the distracting view and back to her desk. She was typing unenthusiastically at a document about procedures in missing persons’ cases, which was making her both bored and disgruntled. None of these procedures had been followed when her mother went missing from their kitchen on a cold October afternoon in 1993. A report from a neighbour about seeing masked men approach the house hadn’t even made it into the file. Basic searches hadn’t been done. Her medical records had disappeared. It was days before they’d even dusted the place for prints, and Paula and her father were still living in the house and present at the scene when they’d finally searched it. They’d just given up on her, despite the fact her husband was a police officer. Paula was doing her best not to imagine what might have happened if they’d done things properly, because she knew that was the surest route to crazy, but it was hard.

  A knock at the door made her look up. ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘How’s the report coming?’ said DI Guy Brooking.

  She wrinkled her nose. The Missing Persons’ unit had official oversight of all the missper cases in the London area. Surely Guy could find her something more interesting to work on. ‘It’s a bit dry. Have you anything good for me?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not since those girls got on the plane to Syria. We had to hand it over to Interpol. And the one from this morning turned up at her boyfriend’s house.’

  The missing girl who’d been logged in earlier that day was fifteen. ‘And how old’s he?’

  Guy winced. ‘Thirty-seven. So maybe we can charge him with something there.’

  Paula sighed. It was good, of course, when a missing girl was found safe, but she needed something juicier. She’d taken the job with her old boss’s new team knowing it would be largely research-based, looking at strategies to prevent teenage girls from being radicalised or groomed, joining gangs, being sucked into abusive relationships. She was sure they were doing important work, but still. A bit of mystery would pep her day right up. She wasn’t asking for much. Just something where the girl hadn’t had a fight with her parents and run off with an unsuitable older man. Because ninety-eight times out of a hundred, that was what had happened.

  Guy came in and perched on her desk, the smell of his citrus aftershave filling the room. His sleeves were rolled up and his skin lightly tanned from the week of warm weather they’d had. You actually got summer in Lo
ndon – sometimes, anyway. Back home in Ireland it was ten degrees and raining, despite being June. Paula still checked the weather every day, even though she officially lived here now.

  She moved her chair away a little. It was never safe to be too close to Guy, despite the gallons of water under the bridge between them. His aftershave triggered all sorts of complicated sensations in her, and she couldn’t have that. There was too much at stake – her job, her daughter. Aidan. But she wasn’t thinking about him. ‘How’s Maggie settling in?’ Guy asked, performing his annoying trick of reading her thoughts. ‘It must be strange, moving to London from Ballyterrin.’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine. Kids are adaptable, I suppose. And the day care’s great – I can pop down and see her in my lunch break.’ She did feel bad about taking Maggie away from her grandparents. Paula’s father had remarried, and his wife Pat was technically Paula’s stepmother, but almost also her mother-in-law. Pat’s son, Aidan, who Maggie thought was her father, was currently in prison back in Northern Ireland. Part of Paula knew that by taking Maggie away, she was giving her daughter the chance to forget. She was only three. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember those two years when she’d had a father. Not that he was actually her father.

  She wasn’t thinking about that either. ‘How’s Tess?’ she offered in return, with forced brightness. After a wobbly year or two, Guy and his wife were trying to make another go of it. She was pregnant. A Band-Aid baby, as they called it. Paula was happy for them, of course she was.

  ‘She’s fine. You know what it’s like, the final stretches. And this heat doesn’t help.’

  She nodded. She knew more than he realised. She pushed her chair a little further away from him and that distracting waft of lemon. ‘Sure.’

  Guy got up, his chat and check-in done, time to move on to another staff member who needed a pep talk. He was such a good boss. It was annoying. ‘Good. Well, if anything interesting comes in you’ll be the first person I call. Promise.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She forced a smile. It was good, working with him. The environment was supportive – it always was around Guy – and she could make a difference here, and work on a range of cases that weren’t all steeped in the horrors of the Troubles. That didn’t remind her every day of her mother. But still. She was bored.