The Killing House

by Claire McGowan

  ‘Thank you,’ she called. ‘I’ll leave you be.’ She pulled the door behind her and went back to her car, thinking furiously. Someone must know something. The first rule of police work. Someone always knows something. But what good was that if they wouldn’t talk?

  Sitting in her car, she rang into the office. Corry’s line was busy, and Paula wondered fleetingly was she closeted with Tozier again. ‘Me here,’ she said into the voicemail. ‘Just checking if there’s any progress on finding out who was paying the nursing home fees for old Mrs Wallace. Catch you later.’

  She gave one last look at the large, pleasant family house, reflecting briefly that some people at least managed to move on from their terrible pasts, and drove off.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Saoirse was looking after Maggie today, while Pat and PJ went to a funeral in Strabane. This was something they did with increasing frequency, the way Paula had been to a spate of weddings in the last few years, her own included. They’d come back later full of comments on the food, the choice of hymns, the grief of the bereaved spouse, like they were reviewing it for some kind of Which Funeral magazine. She sat in traffic in her car, mulling it all over, tempted to draw up some kind of whiteboard map like a crazed detective in a film. It’s all connected, Bob had said. Her mother had perhaps been taken to draw out a tout, and not rescued because her handlers were protecting someone bigger, that was Maeve’s theory. An informer, high up in the IRA. Many of those informers still had to carry out killings in order not to be suspected, Paula knew. The more she thought about it, it all seemed to come back to Sean Conlon. He’d been with Mairead – he was Carly’s father, like as not. He’d killed Aidan’s father and probably Tom Dunne’s father too. He’d helped kidnap her mother but let her go for some reason – his promise to Bob, maybe. He’d gone to Bob for help, given him a list of names including Paddy Wallace’s, but died that same night in a piss-soaked pub car park. Aidan was in prison for killing him. Her hands gripped on the steering wheel – she did not mourn Conlon, but if he were still alive, they wouldn’t be in this mess. And she would be able to ask him – did Margaret really get away? Or did someone go after her?

  Is she still alive?

  She drew up at Saoirse and Dave’s house, noting that Dave’s car wasn’t there – he must be working late. A Volvo was parked outside. The neighbour’s car, maybe. She rapped on the door, distracted, thinking she’d get Maggie home and to bed and make some notes about all this, maybe quiz her dad some more when he came home, though she could never tell him everything she knew. Saoirse had not come to the door; she leaned on the bell. A figure was approaching – a man. Was Dave home after all? But no, it looked too wiry to be him; Dave was a big, shaggy bear of a man. The door opened, and Paula saw the face, and then she understood.

  ‘Come in,’ said Paddy Wallace, all charm. He was still handsome, but twenty years clung to his face, and his hair was cropped, flecked with grey. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, nothing remarkable. And he had a gun in his hand. What kind, she didn’t know. Gun makes weren’t something she recognised. It looked big and black and very heavy. Paula was focusing very hard on the details, trying to make sense of it all. Of what was going on. If she could understand it, then she could control it, and everything might be fine.

  Saoirse was sitting on the sofa with her hands on her knees, very pale, in jeans and a loose top. Her body was angled so Maggie sat behind her, pressed against the back of the sofa, looking confused and cross, her red hair escaping from its bunches. ‘Mummy!’

  ‘Yes, pet, just sit still there for a minute like a good girl.’ She flashed a quick look at Saoirse, but what could she even say? She’d put her friend in danger. It was unforgivable. She turned to Wallace, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘This has nothing to do with my friend. Let her go – she’s pregnant, and I have a child. You wouldn’t want to hurt a woman anyway, would you?’

  He laughed, softly, in his throat. He held the gun loosely, clearly comfortable with it. ‘Your mammy tried to use the same argument, Paula, that she had a wean at home. Didn’t work for her.’

  Paula saw Saoirse’s look of confusion. ‘But she’s done nothing. And my little girl . . .’ Her throat closed over with fear. All these years she’d been in danger herself so many times, reckless and stupid, but she’d protected Maggie from the worst this country had to offer. She’d taken her away to the relative safety of London. ‘Please don’t hurt them.’ She heard the pleading in her own voice and hated it.

  ‘Who said anything about hurting? I’m just here for a chat.’ The gun swung lazily. How out of place it looked in Saoirse’s neat house, her sisal sofa and framed watercolours and nick-nacks. ‘You’ve been sniffing around, Paula, and I don’t like that. I’m just here to make sure you stop. Go back to London. No reason for you to be over here getting in trouble.’

  Her hands began to shake. He knew where she lived, where her child was. Had he been following her? The Ghost. He could slip around town, a wanted man, and never even be spotted. How did he do it?

  There was a noise outside, the sound of a car, and she jerked instinctively, following the muzzle of the gun as Wallace lifted it up. Trying not to think about all the terrible stories she remembered from the Troubles – women shot at home in front of their children, bullets fired into cots, children dying in bombs. Men like Wallace didn’t care. They had their own code. ‘Who’s that now?’ he said to himself, and went out to the hallway. Not Dave, please not Dave. Paula caught Saoirse’s eye and knew she was thinking the same thing. Dave would be home any minute, and how would Wallace, with a gun in his hand, react if a huge man walked into the house?

  As he left the room, Paula rushed to the sofa, desperate to feel Maggie in her arms. The little girl squirmed. ‘Mummy, there’s a bad man.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart.’ She clutched Saoirse’s arm. ‘Christ, are you OK?’

  Saoirse nodded. ‘We just have to keep him calm.’ She’d likely been in worse situations in A&E, but not when she was pregnant after wanting it so long. A red rage was settling in Paula’s stomach, fighting with the fear. Point a gun at her pregnant friend, at a three-year-old? He would pay for this.

  Wallace was back. ‘Just the neighbour. But we shouldn’t linger here. So, Paula – are you going to tell me why you’ve been poking around in my business?’

  She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I just needed some answers. My fiancé’s in prison for something he didn’t do.’

  Wallace crossed over to her, perching on the arm of the sofa beside Maggie. She scowled at him. ‘Go away! You’re a bad man.’

  He reached out and smoothed Maggie’s red head. Paula’s fists clenched. ‘Lovely little girl, isn’t she? Looks like her grandma. Same hair. That’s her daddy in prison, is it? The one my brother’s been whispering away to?’

  ‘You arranged it. The attack in prison.’ She’d always known the timing was too coincidental.

  ‘Aye, well, our Ciaran should count himself lucky. If he wasn’t my own blood he’d be in a box by now. He was telling my secrets to your daddy, Maggie, and we can’t have that!’

  Maggie cocked her head, confused. ‘My daddy?’

  He was searching the child’s face, as if he could see the secret written there, as if he was something more than human, able to read minds and hearts. But he said nothing, just stood up again. ‘Paula, you’ve put yourself in the middle of something. And that’s a problem, for me and for you too.’

  ‘You’re picking off your old squad.’ This was clear. But why now, after so many years?

  ‘Aye. One of them betrayed me, and I won’t stand for that. None of them left now.’

  ‘Conlon?’ She held his gaze.

  He shrugged. ‘He brought it on himself. You know that. Your fella nearly did the job for me, it wasn’t hard to finish it.’ There it was, the confession she needed. Aidan hadn’t done it. But would she get ou
t of this and be able to tell anyone?

  ‘So he’s innocent. He could go free.’

  ‘Maybe. But you won’t be telling anyone what you know, will you now?’

  What did that mean? Because she’d keep quiet, or because she wouldn’t be able to? Her mind raced ahead, stumbling over itself. She made herself raise her chin. ‘I’d like some answers, Paddy.’

  ‘Go on then.’ He sounded quite reasonable.

  ‘My mother. Where is she?’

  Paddy smoothed some fingerprints off his gun. ‘To my knowledge she was dead and buried on the farm, like I told the Commission.’ So that was him too. Trying to stall the investigation into the two dead bodies, and maybe also find out the truth himself. Perhaps he had suspected Aisling and Sean were lying, all those years ago.

  ‘But she isn’t. Is she?’

  ‘It would seem not. The man she was . . . involved with . . .’ He was moderating his language to spare Maggie, she realised. Meaning what? He was going to let Maggie go? ‘He was in London. Some associates of mine managed to catch up with him and finish him off. If she’s anywhere she’s there, your mother.’

  ‘You went after her?’ She held her breath, waiting to hear her mother was dead anyway, tracked down and killed.

  He shook his head absently. ‘Didn’t know to look, before this. I was daft enough to believe my wee sister and my best pal, when they told me she was dead. More fool me.’

  And now he did know to look, he knew she had escaped. And if her mother was still alive, Paula had sent the Ghost back hunting her. Corry was right. She’d dug up the past and she wasn’t ready for the consequences, not at all. Panic rose up her arms and legs, freezing her. She had to keep talking, keep him engaged, and above all calm. Panic was the real killer in these situations. She was aware of Saoirse on the sofa, murmuring to Maggie, who had started to make soft crying noises. She was a sturdy little girl but this would be too much for most adults, let alone a toddler. Think, Maguire, think. What could she say, what could she offer a man like this to get him away from her child, her friend? ‘Your sister’s back,’ she risked. ‘Aisling.’

  ‘Oh yes. Wee Aisling. Quick to stick a knife in my back, she was, for all the age of her. Her and Conlon. They lied to me, right to my face.’

  ‘I can take you to her. Wouldn’t you like to find out what really happened that night? What really happened to Emer?’

  Wallace tapped the gun against his chin, casually. He was still attractive, not just his features but a kind of magnetism that came off him. That intense focus, and the sense there was nothing he wouldn’t do. ‘Maybe. So what do you suggest we do, Paula? You see the problem here. I can’t let you carry on what you’re doing. I can’t just leave you and be on my way.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said quickly. ‘Somewhere else. I know you have a place. Wherever Mairead is.’

  ‘And let your friend here ring the peelers as soon as we’re gone?’

  ‘I won’t say anything.’ Saoirse’s voice was shaking. ‘Please. I’m pregnant. Please.’ Her eyes met Paula’s, flicking downwards. With a sickening thump of her stomach, Paula saw it: the red stain spreading out from her jeans. Small still. But scarlet as poppies.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Saoirse was bleeding. The shock, likely. She had to get her away from this. Maggie had not noticed yet, thank God, but surely would soon.

  What could she do? Paula knew nothing had worked for her mother. She’d have pleaded for her life, surely, tried to argue and beg her way out of it. For her daughter’s sake. Maybe even for the child she was carrying. Not realising she’d been a pawn sacrificed to protect the king – Sean Conlon. But he’d let her go. And he’d had more to lose than anyone, back then. It was possible. She tried again. ‘We could arrange a reunion. All your family together, Paddy. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Carly too. Your niece. Mairead’s girl.’

  He frowned at her. ‘You think I want to see those traitors?’

  ‘But we should go somewhere else,’ she said. Trying to sound like she was on his side. ‘It’s too public here – the neighbours will hear something. I’ll come with you and we’ll see what to do next. You can speak to Aisling, maybe – ask her why they did it, why they lied to you. Fintan likely didn’t kill Emer, did he? He didn’t have it in him. You must have suspected that. So don’t you want to find out who did? Aisling’s the only one who knows now.’

  He was thinking about it, she could see.

  ‘We can help each other,’ she said, in a low voice. Too much? She held her breath.

  He gestured with the gun, reminding her who held the power in this room. But then he said, ‘All right then. Paula, you’ll come with me. You’ll drive. Nice and easy. If you don’t make trouble, I won’t make any for you.’

  ‘You’ll leave my friend here, and my little girl?’ She saw Saoirse edging a cushion in front of herself, trying to hide the blood.

  He nodded assent. She sagged in relief, pushing away the thought that it wasn’t over for her. At least the others were safe. She hugged Saoirse fiercely, trying not to look at the bloodstain. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Glocko. I never thought this would happen. Get to hospital as soon as we’ve gone. And look after Maggie?’

  ‘But Paula . . .’

  ‘If anything happens . . . will you tell Aidan, I know it wasn’t him? Will you tell him I always did?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Speak to Bob. He’ll know what to do. OK?’

  ‘Paula!’

  ‘It’s OK.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand, then pulled Maggie to her quickly, fiercely, afraid that if she lingered she would break down entirely, and whispered, ‘Be a good girl, pet. I love you.’

  ‘Mummy, I don’t want you to go!’

  ‘I’m sorry, pet. Stay with Auntie Saoirse, OK?’

  Then she was following him out the door, to the anonymous Volvo Paddy must have driven there, the gun concealed under his jacket, and the two of them were getting in, all peaceful and calm, like two friends on a day out. As the house receded in the back mirror, all she could think was they’re safe. Thank God, they’re safe. The rest was now on her.

  They drove out of town, Paula at the wheel, Wallace beside her with the gun held casually against her seat. She could feel the press of it on her leg, as with his other hand he tapped at a Nokia phone. Calling for help, maybe? Where was he taking her? She drove with unnatural care, slowing down so much approaching every traffic light that the impatient drivers of Ballyterrin honked and swore at her. Soon they were heading out into the countryside, the housing estates giving way to fields and trees. Following his directions, she pulled off the motorway onto a side road, then another, and another, until the car drove slowly between high hedgerows and bumped over a line of grass down the middle. They were in deep country now, where no one would see or hear them. She wondered where it was – somewhere he owned, a second home or something like that? He must have help, to do the things he’d done. They rumbled over a cattle grid and stopped outside what looked like a small hut or barn. There were no other buildings around, just fields and the slope of the mountain rising up behind. When she got out, urged on by Paddy’s almost friendly gesture, she could hear the birds and the faraway sound of traffic. And there, outside the hut, was another man. He came forward to the car. When she saw it was Tom Dunne, she wasn’t even surprised, not really. Wallace had to have someone helping him, giving him money, sorting out a place to stay. Dunne had money and influence, and his father’s old IRA contacts. He wouldn’t have been on Conlon’s list because his father was long dead, and he’d only been a child when Sean shot him. But maybe he wanted revenge all the same.

  Tom swung his gaze on her, and the mask of the suburban dad had slipped. She heard him say to Paddy, ‘What the hell are you playing at? Thought you were dealing with her?’

  ‘Never you worry. I have it in hand.’ Wallace sounded almost chipper.
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br />   ‘I offered to come,’ Paula said, hearing how high and frightened her voice was.

  He didn’t even seem to hear her, addressing Wallace in a harsh whisper. ‘What are we going to do? She’s made the link now. She came to my house.’

  ‘She can’t prove anything. She’s not even working with the PSNI, not officially. Isn’t that right, Paula?’

  She swallowed. He’d responded well before when she’d been bullish, kept her chin up. She had to play this right. ‘So Tom paid you to take out his father’s killers, was that it?’

  Tom’s eyes were jumping, crazy, compared to Paddy’s professional calm. It was him she had to watch out for. Paula made herself keep looking at the men. She said, ‘It wasn’t right, was it, Tom? No one was ever convicted of killing your dad. Conlon did it, everyone knew, but he never went down for it, or anything else during the Troubles. And why was that? Was someone protecting him? Army Intelligence maybe?’

  Wallace was nodding approval. ‘Not bad, Paula.’

  ‘Back then, you were trying to flush out the tout in the squad, weren’t you, Paddy? Was it Conlon?’

  ‘It would seem that way. Not poor ould Fintan after all.’

  She nodded, pieces falling into place. So Maeve’s theory was right. No one from the Army had gone to save her mother, because they couldn’t risk exposing Conlon, their spy in the organisation. He must have lived on a knife edge. And yet he’d let her mother go, when a bullet in the head would have solved his problem, saved Emer and Fintan from their graves in the pit, put a stop to this chain of events which had led to a man with a gun pointed at her daughter and her friend and now her, alone at this hut with two dangerous men. ‘I understand, Tom,’ she said, trying to sound reasonable. ‘No one was ever caught for taking my mother either – no one would even tell us what happened to her – and I’ve been looking all this time. I understand you wanted them dead. There’s no one mourning men like that. But you’ve got children – you wouldn’t want to leave my wee girl with no mother, would you?’