‘Well, Dermot was lying about something. Did you see the way his eyes kept moving?’
Corry put less faith in behavioural science. ‘They seem to think she’s gone off by herself. Get some time alone.’
‘Katy and Dermot both used the same word. Headspace, they said.’ They were heading back out to the car. The day at Oakdale was winding down, students starting to gather up books and jumpers and sun cream and head indoors from the lawns. No indication at all that just a few miles down the road, one of their classmates was gone, leaving only a trail of blood. ‘That suggests to me they’ve been discussing it.’
Corry unlocked the car. ‘I wouldn’t pay too much heed to what they say. Alice isn’t the only one into drugs.’
‘Yeah, I clocked Dermot’s eyes. Spaced out.’
‘Aye. Uppers and downers, I’d say. Anxiety my foot. Katy seemed a bit glassy too. Then there’s Peter Franks – who Katy claims is her boyfriend.’
‘You don’t believe it?’ Paula looked at Corry, her profile strong against the low evening sun as she started the car.
‘Maguire, wait till you see him. His picture’s on the website of this place, because he’s rowing captain or some nonsense – a great big hunk of a fella. Whereas Katy, not to put the girl down, but unless she’s in some soppy American romcom, she’s not the one who gets the guy.’
‘So what’s his story? Peter?’
‘Well.’ Corry took her hand off the wheel and rubbed at a spot on her trousers, where she’d dripped tea earlier. ‘I couldn’t get much out of the secretary on that, waffling on about data protection, but Peter doesn’t even have his Leaving Cert. He didn’t finish school, for some reason.’
‘And they still let him in here?’
Corry gave a small snort. ‘The wonders of money, Maguire. Not that your woman Hooker there would admit it. She’s a tough customer.’
Paula looked round at the university, the early evening light soft on the building’s grey stone walls. Horses in the fields, bending their heads to the rich grass. No drought problems here. ‘Seems a weird place for a lord’s daughter.’ There’d been a few of Alice’s type at Greenwich, where Paula had studied – privileged, brought up to let their voices ring out loud and proud, no regional accent to be ashamed of. No one asking them to repeat themselves or had they grown up on a farm. Ski tans and rowing hoodies. She’d been permanently weighed down by the chip on her Northern Irish shoulder – part of the reason she’d got a first was she’d hated everyone on her course too much to socialise with them. Or maybe she was just prejudiced.
‘She missed a lot of school, remember,’ said Corry, as they drew down the long driveway. ‘She went to Warwick but couldn’t hack it, dropped out last year.’
Paula said, ‘Did you go to university?’ There was still so much she didn’t know about Helen Corry, despite having worked with her for nearly three years now.
‘Me? No, straight into the job. Didn’t see the point.’
‘I guess they don’t think much about the point, here. Alice probably felt at home, if she spent her life in clinics and boarding schools.’
‘It’s a haven for the mad and rich, Maguire. For when their parents want rid of them and are happy to pay. Question is, why did Alice leave? If she chose to live in that damp wee cottage, she wanted away from something. Or someone.’
‘Katy?’
‘Could be. Sharing small quarters can get tough – though she was at boarding school all her life, she’d be used to it.’
‘We need to speak to this so-called boyfriend. Whoever’s boyfriend he is.’
‘That’s what we’re doing.’ Corry had parked on the edge of a playing field. The sun had dipped now, and a breeze with a slight chill picked up. Across the pitch, with the lake at their backs, came a troop of warriors. Four young men, all over six foot, every muscle visible in Lycra suits. On their shoulders, like some pagan sacrifice, they carried a boat. Corry opened the door and called them over, but even without being told Paula already knew which one was Peter Franks. He was the one everyone else looked to.
Men and their attractions was something of a difficult topic between Paula and Corry. Occasionally the older woman would offer a bit of parenting advice, like how to stop Maggie’s teething pains or deal with her nursery. Corry’s children were now sixteen and fourteen, and she’d long since divorced their father, who she described as ‘a useless streak of piss’. But she’d never asked Paula whose child Maggie might be, or what exactly had been the relationship between Paula and her former boss, Guy. In her turn, Paula didn’t ask how Corry felt about the fact she’d been sleeping with a killer, one who’d hacked into her emails and used them to derail the investigation, and also Corry’s career. One who’d died for it, with a bullet in his head.
But this boy had a gravity, she didn’t deny it. Once Peter had showered – he’d begged ten minutes so he could change, with a smile it was hard to say no to – he met them in the common room. Students sat at the desks or in the seats, talking quietly. Peter returned in soft jeans and a floppy-collared shirt, the same blue as the fading sky outside. The sleeves were rolled up to show his tanned arms, the hairs touched with gold.
‘Ladies.’ He was all charm, but Paula felt Corry bristle slightly.
‘It’s DS Corry and Dr Maguire.’
‘Of course, sorry. Can I get you a drink?’
It was the first one they’d been offered all day. Corry nodded. ‘I’ll have tea. Decaf, please.’ He went to the bar to get them, chatting easily with the girl working there, coming back all smiles with three drinks held in his large hands. Corry caught Paula’s eye. ‘We’ll have to watch ourselves with this one,’ she murmured. ‘Fancies himself.’
He sat down, passing them the drinks in paper cups. ‘Sorry that took a while.’
‘So, Peter. What is it you’re studying?’
‘History,’ he said, easing back in his chair. ‘I’m interested in, you know – the past. What was it you wanted me for?’
Paula caught the steel in Corry’s voice. ‘We’re here about Alice.’
He eased back more. Didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Oh yeah. She’s run off again, I hear.’
‘We’re treating it as suspicious, Peter.’
‘Is that really necessary? I mean, she’s known for doing this.’
‘Have you known her to disappear from the college?’
‘Well, no, but she moved out to that cottage, and that was weird. We all thought something was up.’
‘We?’
He shifted, the leather of his chair creaking. ‘A few of us hang out a bit. We were all older than the rest of the first years, see. She made friends with her room-mate, Katy, and a guy she met at the therapist’s office.’
‘Dermot, is that who you mean?’
His voice was light, skimming the conversation like a boat on a lake. ‘Yeah, Dermot. He’s OK, bit nerdy. I’d never normally hang round with someone like him. But Alice – she was good at bringing people together.’
Corry said, ‘We heard you and Alice were involved.’
Again, he didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Ah no. We might have pulled a few times, you know, freshers’ week stuff, it’s only natural. But we were friends mostly.’
‘And Katy? She calls you her boyfriend.’
At this, Peter looked momentarily surprised. ‘She does?’
‘You’re not?’
‘Sergeant.’ He rolled out a smile, a yard of white, dimples creasing his mouth. ‘I’m a young guy. I don’t want to settle down yet. And this place, it’s full of girls. You know what I’m saying.’
‘Yes, Peter, I believe I can crack your code. So you weren’t with Katy last night?’
He was wrong-footed. Just for a second, then he righted himself, but Paula and Corry both noticed it. ‘Oh – well, I was. But we’re not – you know. A couple.’
‘You might want to have a chat with Katy, then. She thinks you two are an item.’
‘Of course. I’d hate to hurt he
r feelings. She’s a nice girl, if a bit – clingy. That’s why Alice went, I thought.’
‘Go on,’ said Corry, carefully. It was the same thing Katy claimed he’d said about Alice.
‘Well, Katy was always wearing Alice’s clothes and using her make-up, and like, cuddling up on her bed. Plus she’d cry a lot, tell Al all her woes. A bit, you know – hello, stalker? So I think Al just wanted some space.’
‘Headspace,’ said Corry.
‘Right,’ he nodded, as if grateful for the word. ‘Headspace.’
‘She couldn’t have just switched rooms?’
‘Katy would have been hurt. And when you hurt her, you hurt her. You know?’
Corry frowned. ‘Explain?’
Peter held up his forearm and mimed slashing at the soft underside. ‘Bit razor-happy, you know? Did you see her arm?’
‘Sounds like a lot of pressure on Alice not to upset Katy, drive her to self-harm.’
‘Like I said. You’d want space, wouldn’t you?’
Paula leaned in, casually. ‘I’m surprised you’d get involved with Katy then, knowing what you know.’
At that Peter went silent. ‘I wouldn’t say involved.’
‘What would you say?’
Corry shot Paula a look – they’d hit home. ‘Look,’ he said, fighting to get the smile back on his face. ‘I’d really hate for you to waste your time. I honestly think Al, she just needed a bit of space. She’ll be fine. She’ll be back in a few days.’
‘So we shouldn’t be worried.’ Corry watched him.
‘Well, I don’t know obviously, but I think not. No.’
Unexpectedly, she sat back, changed tone. ‘Thanks, Peter, you’ve been very helpful.’
He looked up in surprise as they rose. ‘That’s it?’
‘For now.’ Corry buttoned her jacket. ‘You won’t be going anywhere, of course, if we need you.’ She gave Paula a look, the meaning clear: enough.
Chapter Nine
‘This is the one you want?’ The wee lad who ran the storage facility was about eighteen, in a green polo shirt that bit into the painful acne on his neck.
‘Yeah.’ Coughing on the dust, Paula stepped into the unit. ‘Thanks, I’ll be grand here.’
He went, his feet clanging on the cold stone floors. Down below, he was playing the local radio station, Radio Ballyterrin, with important breaking news such as a herd of cattle getting loose on the road, and a suspicious package being blown up by Bomb Disposal. Northern Ireland was that kind of mixed-up place.
Paula had been given permission to access the archives earlier that evening, by an unnaturally helpful Willis Campbell. He’d said, ‘It’s hard to credit it. This other case happened on the same day, thirty years back?’
‘Thirty-two. I need to get the file out of storage, check a few things.’
He’d waved her on. ‘Yes, yes, do what you must. Oh, Dr Maguire?’
‘Yes.’ She’d paused, hating herself for adding: ‘Sir.’
‘I hear you get good results. I also hear you think the rules don’t apply to you.’ She said nothing. ‘I’d like to see more of the former, less of the latter, please. Then we’ll get along just fine, won’t we?’
‘I’m sure we will.’ She paused again, thinking – Oh, Guy. ‘Sir.’
‘Lovely.’ Then he’d added, as if remembering something he’d seen in a management manual: ‘You’re doing a good job, Dr Maguire. Carry on.’
But she wasn’t, she thought now, seeing the piles of archive boxes, labelled in what looked like Avril’s neat handwriting. Women 30–45. Yvonne would be in the box marked Women 18–29. A safe one, where Paula wasn’t likely to accidentally find her mother’s file. Of course, she had a copy of it in the desk at home. She hadn’t opened it in two years, but all the same it was there, while life went on around it. A nasty little secret on the underside of everything.
No, she wasn’t doing a good job. Alice had already been lost a day, and that meant the window for finding a missing person was closing. And with Alice’s background, suicide was the most likely thing. But why no body? Had she gone off somewhere alone to die, like an animal? And what of the strange coincidence about Yvonne? Paula found the right box, labelled 1970–90 (thank God for Avril; policing’s gain was admin’s loss), and pulled it out, grunting with the effort.
Paula read the file sitting on a squashy pile of boxes, by the dim light of the unit’s bare bulb. Soon she forgot about the cheerless surroundings, and the chill of the concrete walls. She was back in 1981, the year of her birth, and feeling it again – the first time in so long – the rush, the need to find and bring home the lost. Yvonne O’Neill, she noted, did indeed have a look of Alice Morgan. The fiancé who’d died had been the only man in her life, according to the RUC. No boyfriends, not even many friends, just her teaching job, among the same nuns who’d once been her family, and the invalid mother she’d gone back to every night. Yvonne had helped out with Girl Guides, visited sick neighbours. A good girl, you’d say. Paula looked at the old grainy photo of Yvonne, smiling, her hair falling in pale waves. Someone else had been cropped out of it – an engagement photo, maybe. There was a funeral order of service in the file too, the front reading David Alan Magee, 1 May 1981. A picture on that of a young man in a denim shirt, also smiling. Paula fitted the two together, the edges making one photo, David’s arm slotting in place around Yvonne’s shoulder. So it wasn’t long after her fiancé’s death, the disappearance. Him dead. Her gone.
She ran a finger over the signature on one report in the file – Patrick Maguire. Her father. He’d remember this case – like her, he never let go of the ones he couldn’t find. She took the file and locked up the cold little room. Full of names. The ones they would maybe never find.
Paula couldn’t get used to her dad living at Pat’s. She’d been going to this house all her life, since her mother had taken her as a child, whispering admonishments to keep quiet and be good. Then as a teenager, the odd time for parties or Christmas visits, keeping an eye out for Aidan, who hadn’t uttered a word to her at all between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. When suddenly they’d been going out and she’d been round here all the time to sneak into his room, burrowing her hands under his school shirt, gulping in the smell of him as if he was the air she breathed.
She was remembering all this as Pat came to the door, slowly, visible through the panes of coloured glass. ‘Ah pet, there you are. She’s asleep. Will I wake her?’
‘Ah no, I wanted a word with Dad anyway. Leave her be a while.’ Pat was looking tired, Paula thought. Dark circles under her eyes, a stiffness in her shoulders. She hoped it wasn’t from running around after two-year-old Maggie all day, who was currently into everything she shouldn’t be. PJ helped, but his old leg injury meant he couldn’t do the running, stop Maggie from slipping out an open door or feeding her sandwich into the video player or her fingers into the electric socket (really, it was exhausting).
‘He’s in the lounge. I’ll make you some tea – I haven’t baked, but I’m sure you’re not eating biscuits anyway, with the big day so soon!’
Paula was, in fact, still eating all the biscuits she could get her hands on – the lack of a functioning kitchen didn’t lend itself to healthy eating – but she let it go. PJ was in front of the horse racing, his leg propped up on a pouffe, the Irish Times crossword open in front of him with his glasses folded on it. Somewhere between now and Paula leaving for university – her eighteen, him mid-forties – her father had aged. ‘Well, pet.’ He took the glasses off and rearranged some cushions for her to sit down. ‘Where’s Lady Muck?’
‘Having her nap. I’ll leave her for a while yet. Wanted a word with you.’
‘Aye?’ PJ always looked wary at such things. When he’d told her he was marrying Pat, three years ago, and Paula had told him in return about Maggie coming, they’d had a lot of awkward conversations that veered closer to the emotions than PJ, being an Irish man, would have liked.
‘A work
thing. An old case that’s come up again.’
‘Oh, right so.’ Relief. Work was safe in a way the topics of her mother and her child were not.
‘Did you work on Yvonne O’Neill’s disappearance? Remember that?’
It took PJ a moment. ‘Oh aye, the wee blonde girl. God, that was a bad summer. We were up to our eyes in riots and shootings. The hunger strikes, you know.’ He turned his eyes on her, suddenly alert. ‘What’ve you found? Did we miss something?’
‘No, no. It’s just she went missing from the same place Alice Morgan did. You know, this new case.’
PJ nodded. ‘Aye, I never thought. Crocknashee church. Strange old place. But that was thirty-odd years back. You’re thinking there’s a connection?’
‘No idea.’ Paula sank back in Pat’s squashy armchair. Once, in here, in 1999, when Pat had gone into the kitchen to make tea, she and Aidan had pressed themselves into the carpet, kissing with a blind fury. She blinked, trying not to let the memory show on her face. Even the ornaments and pictures were the same – the photo of Aidan’s father, John, holding the boy on his knee. 1983. Three years before he’d been gunned down in his office, in front of Aidan. Pat and John’s wedding picture, all seventies hair flicks and sideburns, had been tactfully taken down, replaced by one of Pat and PJ on their own wedding day two years back. Paula in a bridesmaid’s dress on one side, hugely pregnant, and Aidan on the other, ignoring her. And of course there were photos of Maggie on every possible surface. Maybe the only grandchild Pat would ever have, even if she wasn’t exactly . . . ‘So was there anyone?’ she asked her father. ‘You know, someone you suspected?’
PJ was thinking. ‘I was working with Hamilton then. We were still partners. You could always try him.’
Paula nodded. She hadn’t seen Bob Hamilton much since he’d retired two years ago, something she’d mistakenly had a hand in precipitating. She could have gone to visit, of course, but it was always there, the vague panicked feeling that Bob, who’d also been lead investigator on her mother’s case, knew more than he’d ever told her about it. And that whatever he knew, it was something that would shatter Paula and her father, bury the shoots of happiness they’d found for themselves in the rubble.
A Savage Hunger (Paula Maguire 4) Page 6
