‘She was doing her dissertation on the place, and she ended up with the caretaker job.’ Corry was examining a rack of postcards as she spoke, the usual Irish scenes of cows, churches, crosses. On the reception desk was a collection box for Trócaire, the Irish hunger charity.
Campbell was wincing. ‘We have to keep a lid on the relic angle. Otherwise we’ll be overrun with every tree-loving hippy in Ireland.’ He looked at Corry. ‘Did you tell her the rest?’
‘No. I wanted to see what she’d make of this first.’
‘What rest?’ Paula glanced between them.
Corry said, ‘We didn’t want to tell you until you’d seen it yourself, but this has happened before. In this exact spot.’
‘What, a missing girl?’
Campbell clicked his fingers to Kemal, who handed him an evidence bag. Inside was a photograph, smeared in blood. For a second Paula thought it was Alice, but it was just a strong likeness – this picture was of a different blonde girl. Not recent.
‘This was found on the steps,’ he said. ‘Does the name Yvonne O’Neill mean anything to you?’
Chapter Three
‘Who’s Yvonne O’Neill?’ said Paula.
‘You didn’t come across her name down the road?’
When the unit first opened they’d been dumped with all the unsolved missing person cases in Ireland – the ones that made things messy, the ones they couldn’t close. Ones with no body, where the person was simply gone forever, leaving in their wake day after day and night after night of unanswered questions. Now it was shut and the remaining files were all in a storage locker. Paula tried to think. ‘Nope. No bells ringing.’
Corry sighed; she hadn’t wanted to be telling this story. ‘Yvonne was twenty-six – bit older than Alice. Pretty girl. Teacher. She was very religious – in fact she even started training as a nun. But she met a man, got engaged instead. Then the man was killed. Car crash.’
‘That’s rough.’
‘It gets worse. She used to come here a lot, to pray. She only lived down the road. That farm we passed on the way in, you know. Her mother’s still there. Well, one day Yvonne tells her ma she’s away down to the church. She’s walking – it’s a nice day. An elderly neighbour was driving past, saw her on the road. She waves hello, goes up the path. No one ever sees her again.’
Paula frowned; that didn’t make sense. ‘Why didn’t she go round the back way? Would that not be quicker?’ A path looped round the back of the church, linking the O’Neill’s farm, the Garrett home, and the cottage where Alice had been living.
‘Apparently she didn’t like to walk past the Garretts’ house. The families were having some dispute over the land. And yes, before you ask, they looked at the son back then. He was alibied.’
Paula digested this. ‘So – she was also last seen at this church?’
‘That’s right. Same as Alice. They searched everywhere round here. They even took in cadaver dogs – they alerted in the church, but the place is full of old bones, so that didn’t help. No sign of her. Yvonne had a look of Alice too – wee and blonde, like she wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘When was this?’ Why had she never heard about it?
‘1981.’
That explained it. The year of the hunger strikes, when every day someone else was being killed in the North. No surprise if Yvonne got forgotten. ‘Ah.’
‘Yeah. So, everyone was a bit distracted, shall we say. People getting shot all over the show. Everyone thought the UVF got her, or the UDR maybe. Retaliation for the hunger strikes. Yvonne nearly being a nun, you know.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
Corry shook her head. ‘Why no body? If they wanted to make a point, they’d have left her where the RUC could find her. No, I think she just got lost in the chaos. No one cared, when there were ten men starving themselves to death.’
‘So. We have a missing girl, same spot, same look, thirty-two years apart. You reckon that’s significant?’
Corry sighed again. ‘Maguire, there’s more. Yvonne went missing on July the thirty-first, 1981.’
‘Shit. Same day?’
‘Same day. Lúnasa – the old Celtic fire feast, right?’
Paula bit her lip. ‘Right.’ Sacrifice. Fires on the hillsides. Blood in the soil.
Corry gave a grim ghost of a smile. ‘I told you this one was juicy.’
Willis Campbell had been listening to their discussion, and was again looking like a man with severe heartburn. ‘As I said, we need to stay away from the pagan angle – it could just be coincidence. But we’ll do everything we can on this one. Dr Maguire, I’m redirecting you to this case full-time.’ Clearly he had decided that this would be a messy one. ‘Maybe if we find Alice fast we can keep the press out of it. Can you manage?’
‘If you like, sir.’ Thank God – something real to work on, instead of dull-as-ditchwater psychological assessments.
A knock at the church door, and a nervous uniformed officer. ‘Sir . . . DCI Campbell? There’s a reporter here, they said—’
‘Christ, the word’s out already.’ Smoothing his hair again, Willis rushed off.
‘Hope he’s brought his Touche Éclat,’ said Corry. ‘Come on, we need to talk to the person who last saw Alice.’
‘This is a disaster. It’s a priceless relic!’ The chair of the Crocknashee Church Trust, Anderson Garrett, was wringing his hands as he paced around the nave of the church.
‘Don’t be getting on so, Anderson,’ said a grey-haired and grim-faced lady, who was sitting bolt upright in one of the pews. She was dressed in lemon-yellow slacks and carried her handbag on her knee like an offering. ‘Just tell them what happened.’
‘It’s Mrs Mackin, is it?’ Corry looked at her.
‘Mrs Maureen Mackin, and I’ll need to get away soon, I’ve to pick my grandchild up from nursery.’ She peered over her glasses at Corry in her suit and heels, and Paula, somewhat less groomed with her hair falling out of its plait and slightly-too-short summer skirt (she’d grabbed it out of last year’s clothes, not realising it had shrunk from too many washes). ‘You’re from the police, are you? Well, I told the ones in uniform everything.’
‘You were the last person to see Alice, as far as you know?’
She nodded. ‘She said she’d close up last night, so I went off – I’d to make my husband his dinner, he goes to his Rotary meetings on Wednesdays. Then this morning, the door’s lying open.’
‘So you went to get Mr Garrett?’ Corry turned to the man, who was still pacing. He was about sixty, with an oddly stiff gait and a belly that must have been five feet around.
‘Really, you have to find it,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea how valuable it is, I . . . It’s been stolen, I’m sure of it. Lots of relics are being stolen these days, you know, there was one in Dublin just the other month, and—’
‘Mr Garrett, we’re going to do our best to find Alice. And the relic.’ Corry’s tone could have cut glass. ‘It would be very helpful if you could tell us the relic’s history.’
‘It’s irreplaceable.’ He stopped walking for a moment, a sort of tremor of panic going through him. Through the gap in his strained shirt buttons, Paula could see his pale flesh. ‘It’s really . . . I can’t explain. There’s nothing like it.’
‘Yes, but why? What is it?’ asked Corry.
He turned, resuming his fevered pacing. Paula wished she could ask him to sit down. ‘It’s the finger-bone of Saint Blannad. Verified by the Pope.’
‘Assume we’re not Catholic for a minute,’ Corry said drily.
Maureen Mackin tutted under her breath and Garrett expanded: ‘Saint Blannad was the abbess of a convent in five AD. She helped convert the local chieftains to Christianity.’
‘And why’s she a saint?’
At her question, Garrett glanced at Paula, distracted. ‘Because of the miracles, you see, she . . .’ He stopped, taking in air with a kind of gulping noise. ‘The relic. It can perform miracles.’
>
‘Such as?’ asked Corry.
‘It made the harvests multiply. Fed the hungry. During the Famine people prayed at the shrine, you see, and the area was spared.’
Paula was sceptical. Everyone knew South Down had largely avoided the potato blight, but this was likely due to its ring of protective mountains. ‘Anything recent?’
‘Many people find it a source of great healing and comfort,’ Mrs Mackin said, glaring at them over her handbag. ‘We get visitors from the missions all the time. Places where the wee black babies are starving, you know. They pray for food.’
‘OK, but . . .’ Corry was giving Paula a look, so she subsided. ‘Can you tell us about Alice, Mr Garrett?’
It didn’t seem to have occurred to him. ‘Alice? Miss Morgan started coming here several months ago. She was interested in the relic.’
‘Very interested,’ added Maureen Mackin.
‘Meaning?’
‘She used to be in here every day God sent, staring into the wee case. We’d have to chase her out when we were locking up.’
‘But you gave her a job?’ asked Corry.
Garrett was working his hands together like he was kneading a piece of dough; over, under, over, under. ‘We set up a caretaker post to run the place, put on events and so on—’
‘Weddings,’ Mrs Mackin chipped in, ‘though I don’t think it’s right, having civil weddings in what used to be a holy Catholic church.’ She was that kind of speaker, fussy, correcting. The type that made useful witnesses.
‘And how was she as an employee?’ asked Paula, looking at Garrett.
‘Oh, she was, she was . . . diligent, yes. Though I didn’t like her habit of staying late in the church. It should have been locked every day at six, I told her that.’ Corry gave Paula a brief look; that might be worth checking out, if she’d been here alone at night.
‘But apart from that?’
Mrs Mackin conceded, ‘Aye, she wasn’t so bad. Not that any of these young ones would know a hard day’s work if it came up and hit them in the face.’
Corry pressed on, mild irritation seeping into her tone. ‘So it would be out of character for Alice to disappear.’
Garrett was pacing again. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t know her very well.’
‘So let me get this straight,’ said Corry. ‘The relic is missing. The case has been locked up again with the code.’
‘Yes. And only Alice knew it.’
‘Apart from you?’
He made a gesture of annoyance. ‘Of course, apart from me.’
So it was possible she’d been forced to open it. Corry said, ‘And where were you, Mr Garrett, overnight? I gather that’s your house on the road that runs behind here.’
‘My mother, I care for her, you see, she had a fall so I took her in to Ballyterrin Hospital. We were there till about eleven, then I took her back and put her to bed.’
‘Did you see anything at the church, or at Alice’s cottage?’
‘No. No, it was all quiet. All dark.’ He kept staring over at the empty case. ‘I can’t believe it’s gone. It’s really priceless, you must find it!’
Corry said, ‘I’m a bit more concerned about Alice right now. Especially with the previous disappearance from this church.’
Garrett looked blank for a minute. ‘This is nothing to do with that.’
Maureen Mackin looked up sharply. ‘Oh aye, wee Yvonne. That was a long time ago. You don’t think it’s connected?’
‘It’s a big coincidence if not. So we’ll need to examine the building, of course.’
‘What?’ Garrett turned pale. ‘We can’t have you, you, swarming all over the place. It’s bad enough that forensics man’s been in here with his brushes, touching everything . . .’
‘Ah now, Anderson,’ remonstrated Mrs Mackin. ‘He’s respectful enough for one of those Muslim fellas.’
Corry shot Paula a quick glance. ‘Mr Garrett. We will need to search the church. You must see that.’
‘But the relic’s gone. It’s not here. Why would you search the place?’ His hands were wringing again. Up, over, down, around. Of all the things that were lost, the relic seemed to be the only one he cared about.
Alice
Today’s one of the days we aren’t allowed up. We wake up, we go to sleep, and in between we have to just lie here, looking at the ceiling. If you make a fuss, if you turn over in bed too much, then you get the bands.
That makes them sound nicer than they are. Cuffs is what they are. Restraints. They’re made of a kind of Velcro that’s soft, but impossible to break. You don’t want to be in them, so you lie really still, but he’s always watching. Even a flicker of an eye, or breathing too deeply, or moving to scratch an itch, and he notices. Then you can cry and scream and beg and promise all you want, but it’s the cuffs. The woman helps him. We think she’s in love with him. She stinks of cheap perfume and sweat, and when he’s here her eyes follow him round the room. I can smell her breath as she straps me in. She doesn’t care if she hurts me.
Please, I say. Please. I’ll be good.
I might as well have said nothing. She doesn’t even look at me. Now my arms are pulled up over my head, my chewed fingers hanging over the cold metal bedhead. If I’m very bad, if I move or complain, it will be the ankle cuffs too. So I shut up. I stare at the ceiling and the brown stain where water has dripped through. It looks polluted. Ruined. It’s all I’m allowed to look at for the next ten hours, until it gets dark and we just look into the blackness with dry open eyes.
Down the room, someone starts to scream. I can’t see who; my shoulders have seized up. The man and the woman rush to shut her up. I’ve already lost all feeling in my hands. It’s been ten minutes. There’s eleven hours and fifty more minutes to go.
Chapter Four
‘So Alice didn’t live on campus?’ They were walking down the hill at the back of the church, Corry’s heels getting stuck in the parched grass.
‘She did till about six weeks ago.’
It seemed an odd place for a twenty-two year old. Your nearest neighbours would be the skeletons in the graveyard, and the yews around the church rustled and chattered, almost like they were whispering. Alice Morgan clearly didn’t scare easily.
The lintel of the cottage was so low that Paula, at five foot ten, had to stoop to go in. Gerard Monaghan was loitering at the door, stabbing at his BlackBerry. Corry eyed him. ‘For the love of God, Monaghan, would you put your tie on right. Your neck’s not that thick.’
They were technically the same rank now, which neither of them could get their heads around, but Gerard hadn’t lost the habit of deferring to her. He twitched his tie. ‘Nothing here. I’ve had a wee look in already.’
‘Well, let’s see anyway.’
The cottage was just a living room with an open grate, in it a small pile of ashes; a modern kitchen, cold and ugly, and a sliver of bathroom with terrible seventies fittings. It reminded Paula of a bad B & B in the west of Ireland, the kind of place her parents used to take her on their holidays. Before everything. Alice seemed to have spent most of her time in the bed, which was dragged up to the fireplace in the living room, and heaped with books and paper. Baggy tracksuits and jumpers, even in the relative warmth of July. Paula glanced at one of the books. ‘The Paleo diet?’
Corry rolled her eyes. ‘My Rosie came home the other day talking about that. She’s fourteen years old, for God’s sake. Here, don’t touch anything.’
She took some gloves from her jacket. Paula snapped them on, examining the books more carefully. They were on two main themes – Irish history, or dieting. ‘Alice wasn’t overweight, was she?’
‘Hardly. Her description has her at five foot two and seven stone.’
‘Eating disorder?’
‘Most wee girls seem to have one now.’ Corry moved into the kitchen as Paula’s eye was caught by another book. Hunger in Ireland: From saints and visions to the famine and the hunger strikes. ‘Wasn’t there some story about
Saint Blannad?’ she called. She was trying to remember back to school, the drone of her RE teacher on a soporific afternoon. ‘She was starved, wasn’t she, and she had holy visions or something like that, and . . .’ She turned over another book. The Body as Power. A history of the 1981 hunger strikes. Same year Yvonne had gone missing. Had Alice known about the other girl?
Corry’s voice echoed as if she was looking in a cupboard. ‘Come in here,’ she said.
Paula moved towards the kitchen – there was barely room for the two of them. ‘What?’
Then, she saw.
The kitchen units and doors and fridge were entirely covered with pictures. Torn out of magazines and papers. Female bodies. Torsos, legs, arms – the faces cut or ripped off. Here and there were actual photographs of another female body. One hand could be seen holding the camera phone, the other lifting up whatever she was wearing. In some, a hank of blond hair was visible, but the face was always missing. ‘Is it her? Alice?’
Corry nodded. ‘Selfies, is that what they call them?’
‘God, she was thin. Is there any food at all here?’
With her gloved hands, Corry opened the fridge – nothing but a wizened apple and some dark nail polish. In the cupboards were some stale-looking packets of cereal and dried fruit and that was it. Even houses during the Famine probably had more to eat in them. ‘Her Facebook page is like this too – she posts one of those selfies every day. Even yesterday.’
‘Did we get her computer or phone? Bet we’ll find loads of links to pro-ana stuff.’
‘We’ve not found anything yet. She might have her phone with her.’ If she was alive, of course. At this stage – and this was what got Paula really hooked on missing persons work – everything was still possible. Alice might be perfectly fine. There was still hope. There was still a chance.
A Savage Hunger (Paula Maguire 4) Page 3
