Blood Tide (Paula Maguire 5)

by Claire McGowan

  Paula frowned. ‘What baby?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’ She heard his voice, solid and unwavering. Just another case for him, sitting safe and warm in his office on the mainland. ‘Fiona was pregnant, so she was.’

  Fiona

  You know how it creeps up on you. You’re thirty-five, and you have a wonderful man – admittedly a man you feel straining away from you, always trekking off to remote islands and cliffs and wrecks, a man you know you can’t hold in London forever – and you’re happy enough. You have a good job. You’re respected. You run triathlons on the weekend. Sure, your friends and even your younger sister have, one by one, silently as mushrooms in the night, started to reproduce. You buy one baby present, then another. You go to a baby shower, then three more in a year. Then you realise you are more familiar with the entire range of JoJo Maman Bébé than a childless woman should be. And you start to wonder. Why not me? I’m a person just like everyone else. Why wouldn’t I also have a baby, at some point?

  You try to discuss it, in a light, round-the-houses way, with that elusive man of yours, who looks alarmed and mutters something about not being sure it’s right to bring children into the world. Not when it’s like this. War and terrorism and climate change. And you agree. Yes, it’s terrible. Children are so awfully unsophisticated, with their dirty nappies and neediness. And what about our nice furniture and our mini-breaks and my pelvic floor. But look, you want to say. Those birds you love so much, they don’t stop having babies just because their chicks get eaten by rats and drowned in oil and their nests are swept away by waves. They just do it. They lay those eggs, and sit on them, and fly back and forward with food, and nurture them. It’s all they know how to do, however stupid it might be. Why should we, with our Wi-Fi and our wine-of-the-month club, and our weekends away in country cottages, why should we be any different from other animals?

  Yes, there were a million reasons Matt and I shouldn’t have a baby. But all the same I needed it, with a hungry, voiceless desire I couldn’t explain. And I knew more than anyone I was running out of time.

  Chapter Twenty

  Fiona pregnant. Why hadn’t she thought to ask that question? The bloody vitamins, same ones she’d taken herself when she was expecting Maggie. Sitting there in the bathroom cabinet in the lighthouse. Fiona was thirty-six, she’d just moved to the countryside from London. Of course she’d been trying for a baby.

  As Paula hung up, she found she was haunted by stats. The riskiest time for a woman was pregnancy. Over twelve percent of pregnant women in Ireland had faced domestic abuse. Twenty-five percent were abused for the first time while expecting. And the blood in the kitchen. And Matt jumpy, aggressive. The silence out here. If you weren’t used to it, you could crack. They’d already had a murder and almost another in the past few months.

  Frustrated by these inconsistencies, Paula had just turned back to the bar – and that’s when the flying bottle hit the wall, just where her head had been seconds before. She ducked, instinct taking over. Behind the bar stank of stale beer. She peered out – somehow, in the few minutes she’d been on the phone, a full-scale bar fight seemed to have broken out. Rory was in the middle of it, trying to separate two bearded fishermen, identical but for the colour of their bobble hats (one red, one green). A middle-aged woman in a huge knitted jumper was screaming and trying to scratch the face of the barman, the young handsome one. ‘Get your fecking hands off me!’

  ‘Bridget, Bridget, stop it!’ Colm was saying ineffectually. The fishermen seemed to be cursing at each other in Irish. Rory was in the middle, saying nothing but pushing on them both with grim determination, trying to hold them apart. He wasn’t strong enough. They were almost nose to nose now. And Paula saw one was holding a dull-bladed fishing knife in his hand.

  Panic coursed through her. Ring the police! But she was the police, and the sum total of the local Gardaí was here in between them. And it hit her – there was no one else to call. No armed response team, no more officers, no ambulance or helicopter. They were alone, on this clump of rock in the middle of the stormy sea. So she did the only thing she could think of. She grabbed the dish-nozzle, the one that was used for spraying water over glasses, and aimed it at the brawlers, and pressed.

  For a moment they stopped, shocked, water dripping off their faces. ‘Jesus, me good jumper,’ said Bridget, straightening her fluffy monstrosity – it had kittens on it, Paula saw, surreally. She hadn’t thought this through. What if they turned on her now? Calmly, she said, ‘What’s this about? Surely there’s no need to be knocking lumps off each other, now, is there?’

  Green-hat fisherman spoke – she identified him as Paddy, the one who’d rescued the sailor from the sea. ‘What would you know about it, lassie?’

  ‘I’m here with the police in an official capacity, so I’d advise you to stop what you’re doing right away. More officers are on their way over and arrests may be made if there’s any assaults. Oh, and don’t call me lassie.’

  Paddy grunted. ‘It’s this fella here you should be arresting. The dirty scutter gets his fishing done by foreigners, so he does, illegals, and he pays them like field mice and lets them drown. He should be in jail. I wouldn’t treat a dog that way.’

  ‘Don’t you talk about my Brendan that way!’ said Bridget. ‘He’s only trying to make an honest living, and that Paki jumped off the boat by himself, isn’t that right, Brendan?’

  Red Bobble-Hat, or Brendan as he seemed to be called, straightened his overalls. They had the green Enviracorp logo on them. ‘He did, so. Lord knows what takes these fellas. They don’t want to work, is all. Never done an honest day’s labour in their lives. He was looking for a free ride and he didn’t get one.’

  ‘So he jumped into the sea because he’s lazy? In that storm?’ Paula was sceptical. ‘And they picked up the rest of your crew anyway, in a similar state.’ And if the boat had been doing work for Enviracorp after all – transport or dredging or something – that would explain why Rainbow sprang to look after José the sailor. But why had she lied about it? Was she trying to cover up the fact they used illegal workers?

  ‘The man was pure terrified. He couldn’t even swim,’ supplied the barman, who was shaking his head, and starting to pick up some of the glasses and bottles shattered in the contretemps.

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Brendan squared up to him. ‘You wee pup. Good job your daddy was my cousin or I’d punch your lights out.’

  ‘You are a liar,’ rumbled Paddy. ‘A liar and a murderer, as good as. I don’t know what happened on that boat, but thon foreign fella has an interesting story to tell. Isn’t that right?’

  Bridget made a squealing noise in her throat. ‘Brendy, you give him one.’

  ‘Calm down!’ Paula held her hands up. ‘You need to calm down or arrests will have to be made.’

  Bridget sneered. ‘You stay out of it, missy. Coming over here, telling us what to do! What are you even doing here?’

  ‘We’re looking for two missing people,’ she began, her blood boiling.

  ‘That doctor! It’s her you should be talking to about murder,’ said Brendan. ‘Sure Andrea Sharkey’d be grand now if she’d done her job. I say good riddance, and I hope she did go into the sea. I hope she’s drowned, the dirty English bitch.’

  Paula almost missed what happened next, it was so fast. One minute Rory was breathing hard, smoothing down his thick Aran jumper, and the next he was launching himself at Brendan, punching him over and over in his reddened drinker’s nose. Bridget screamed. ‘Jesus! He’s killing him!’

  ‘Rory!’ shouted Paula. ‘Leave him. Garda McElhone!’

  Rory didn’t seem to hear her. He held Brendan – a bigger man than him by at least a foot and thirty pounds – by the hair on his neck, dislodging his hat, and thumped him over and over, with a noise like someone kneading a loaf of bread. Thud, thud, thud. ‘RO
RY!’ Paula shot a panicked glance at Colm the barman, who shrugged helplessly. What could he do?

  She rounded the bar and approached, arms held out. Bridget was still screaming. Paddy stood, a gleeful smile on his face. ‘Stop him, for God’s sake!’ Nothing from Paddy or the barman. She couldn’t stop Rory herself, she wasn’t strong enough. But she had to. She grasped his arm, which was swinging like a piston, and felt the muscles under it, realised she wouldn’t be able to hold him back, not a chance. ‘Rory. Rory, stop it!’

  There was a bursting sound, as Brendan’s nose broke, and finally, Rory stopped.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  The bar was quiet again. Colm had chased Brendan, Paddy and Bridget off home, still slinging insults and Irish curses. She’d been weeping and Brendan’s nose had a distinct dint in it. Dimly, Paula wondered if they’d sue.

  Rory stared down at his battered hand, which was turning the purple of an over-ripe plum. ‘I dunno. I just – saying that about her, when she did her best, and all she ever wanted was to help people out here . . . I saw red. And then, I don’t know. I couldn’t stop. I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t.’

  ‘What’s going on out here, Rory?’ Paula remembered the list from Fiona’s office. Jimmy, Andrea, Matt. Two in secure units, one missing. But there’d been another name, hadn’t there? ‘Who’s Niamh Ni Chailean?’ she said. ‘You never told me about her. Did something happen to her too?’

  Colm was suddenly busy clearing glasses, fiddling at the bar. Paula was close to losing her own temper. ‘I mean it, Rory. If you know something, you better tell me, or I can guarantee you there’ll be consequences. Why didn’t you tell me about Jimmy, or Andrea, or that Matt was having mental health problems? What’s going on? Who is Niamh?’

  He flared up. ‘Niamh has nothing to do with it! Jesus, can you not keep your nose out for one second? Do you not understand what’s good for you?’

  She squared up to him, hands on hips. ‘What’s good for me is to find out the truth. And for Matt and Fiona, which is all I care about. I don’t give a crap about your stupid island politics. They’re missing, and they deserve our best efforts to find them. So tell me what you know. Now.’

  Rory heaved a big sigh, and met Paula’s eyes. His were red-rimmed, sunken. ‘Fine. Come on then.’ He stood up, holding his injured hand awkwardly against himself.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’m taking you to Niamh.’

  ‘Driving? With your hand?’ And with the wind whipping foam off the harbour outside. ‘Can you not just tell me, Rory?’

  He was already moving to the door, opening it and letting in a chill blast that threatened to engulf the warm fire. ‘No. I need you to actually see it. Otherwise . . . I don’t think you’ll believe me.’

  ‘This is it?’

  A simple pebble-dashed bungalow, on the south side of the island. A washing line tangled by the wind, and kids’ bikes stacked against the wall. They’d need to be tied down if things got worse, Paula thought distractedly. Rory hadn’t said a word during the ten-minute drive across the island, clods of turf and branches sailing past them in the wind. He stopped the car outside the house and got out. She followed, holding her hood down, feeling the swelling pressure of the wind.

  The door was answered by a woman of about thirty-five, with a reddened face and a baby on her shoulder. She was wearing pink pyjamas with a print of cartoon dogs on them, though it was four in the afternoon. ‘Ah Rory, it’s yourself. I didn’t know who’d be out knocking in this weather.’

  ‘Sorry, Michelle. This is Paula, Dr Maguire – she’s over with the police, looking for Matt and Fi. Can we have a wee word?’

  A look seemed to pass between them, and Michelle paused for a moment longer than normal. The baby made a hiccupping sound. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’ll blow away out there, I suppose. Sorry I’m in my jammies, I wasn’t feeling well earlier.’

  Inside the house was warm and noisy, a variety of small children darting about the place. One of about Maggie’s age was sitting in front of Peppa Pig in the living room, in just a nappy and vest. It was an episode Paula knew well, which made her miss Maggie even more. ‘Hi there. How’s Peppa getting on?’ Every surface and wall was covered in framed family photos, toys, little children’s clothes.

  The child just looked at her curiously. ‘Cathal, would you take the lady and Rory to see Niamh?’ said Michelle, juggling the baby. ‘Then go into your room and play, like a good boy?’

  He trotted off obediently, eyes still trained on Paula. Rory he seemed familiar with – the Garda greeted him with a grave, ‘And how’s Cathal? Good boy.’

  ‘Do you want me or . . . ?’ said Michelle. ‘Only I’ve something on the stove.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Michelle, we’ll just talk to her. We’ll take it easy. I promise.’

  ‘Because she’s been doing much better.’

  ‘I know. Thanks.’

  ‘On you go, then. Cathal will show you.’

  The little boy led them to a bedroom door that was covered in stickers. Boy bands fought for space with ponies and kittens. Rory knocked softly, then opened the door. ‘Hiya, Niamh, can we come in?’

  Lying on the pink bedspread there was a girl in pink leggings and a jumper, her hair in loose falling-down plaits. ‘Rory?’ She got to her feet, nervy.

  ‘Hi, Niamh,’ said Rory. Paula tried not to look surprised. It seemed Niamh Ni Chailean, who was on that list with a murderer and an attempted baby-killer, was no more than ten years old.

  ‘Am I in trouble again?’ asked Niamh. One foot, with a pink spotty sock, went up to scratch awkwardly at the back of her other leg.

  ‘Niamh,’ said Rory, and he sounded so gentle, it was hard to believe he’d broken a man’s nose just minutes before. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Um . . . OK.’ Niamh was hovering by the bed. A slip of a girl, all legs and eyes and ratty blonde hair, hands rolled up in her sleeves. Her room full of toys and the beginnings of teenage things, glitter paints and crop tops and pictures torn from magazines.

  Rory nodded towards a shelf. ‘Been out collecting?’ The shelf had objects arranged on it in a line. A shell, a clump of dried seaweed, a piece of smooth sea glass, milky-green, and what looked like part of a small skull.

  ‘Did you get this on the beach, Niamh?’ asked Paula.

  ‘Daddy said it was a dog, maybe. Washed up here. I thought it might be a dinosaur or something.’

  ‘Niamh wants to be an archaeologist,’ Rory explained. ‘Can you tell this lady what happened to you, back before Christmas?’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘I’m sorry, you do. We’re trying to find Dr Watts and her boyfriend – we need you to help us by telling what happened. Can you do that?’

  She nodded. ‘The thing that happened at school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Um, well, I don’t remember all of it. Mary and Sinead were being mean to me – teasing me because Daddy’s

  away.’

  ‘Moved out to the mainland,’ Rory said out of the side of his mouth to Paula. ‘And then what?’

  ‘I . . . I got mad. They wouldn’t stop laughing at me and it’s not fair. So I – hit Mary.’

  ‘What did you hit her with, Niamh?’

  Niamh squirmed. ‘The thing. For the fire.’

  ‘The poker, is that right?’

  She nodded unhappily.

  ‘They have an open fire in their school,’ Rory explained. ‘It’s an old building. And the fire was lit and she got the poker out and . . .’

  Paula nodded. A sick feeling spread through her stomach.

  ‘Mary’s OK now,’ said Niamh. ‘Isn’t that right? Dr Watts made her better and she went to the hospital in the big helicopter.’r />
  ‘Well, she’s better, yes. They’re going to put her glass eye in soon.’

  Paula shuddered.

  Niamh said, ‘Rory? When can I go back to school? I don’t like working here, Mammy never has time to teach me.’

  ‘I don’t know, Niamh. We’ll have to see.’

  ‘Niamh,’ asked Paula, leaning forward. ‘When did this happen, this thing?’

  She looked to Rory, who nodded. ‘Before Christmas,’ she said. ‘We were learning carols. I like “Away in a Manger” best.’

  ‘Yes, me too.’ Paula dredged up a smile. ‘And you don’t remember it properly, what happened?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s sort of all red and fuzzy. Like it wasn’t really me doing it. Mammy said it must have been the devil got into me.’

  Paula waited in the car while Rory said goodbye to Niamh’s mother. The ferry would be coming in soon, and hopefully on it would be someone she could hand this case over to, and get away. Away from this island where children blinded each other and mothers fed their babies to the dogs. They’d all used that phrase – the devil. Niamh, Andrea and the near-drowned sailor. Could she really leave, with all this going on? Paula winced at the headache gnawing on her temples. She was dehydrated, probably, only rancid tea to drink all day, and there’d been no time for lunch, what with dying seals and bar fights. She rooted in her bag but found no tablets. Maybe Rory had some. She opened the glove box of his dirty jeep, sifting through car manuals, throat sweets and tissues. No painkillers. She’d be back on the mainland soon, though, so she’d just have to cope until then. She reached down for some papers that had fallen out, hoping Rory wouldn’t mind her hoking about, and then she saw the name on the printed notes – Andrea Sharkey. These were Andrea’s missing medical notes. In Rory’s car.

  A door slammed, and she hastily shoved them back, clumsily shutting the glove box. Rory dashed over to the car, holding up his collar against the rain. ‘All right?’

  ‘Yeah. Um – so did Niamh get any kind of psychological assessment after this happened?’