The Silent Dead

by Claire McGowan

  ‘So they said. Never turned up.’ Catherine had last been seen getting into her car after dropping Peadar at daycare. Somewhere between there and her office on the outskirts of Ballyterrin, she’d vanished.

  ‘Mrs Connell,’ Paula hesitated. ‘Is it fair to say you’re not overly worried about your daughter? You don’t think she’s been abducted, you think she’s safe somewhere?’

  ‘Missus, I’ve been expecting her dead since she was ten years old, but she scrapes through. She’ll be grand, you’ll see. I’m more worried about being landed with these weans.’

  ‘The oldest two, they’re Ronan Lynch’s children? He has also been reported missing, as you know. Could they have left together?’

  ‘In his dreams. She wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire these days, useless galoot that he is.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but are you able to tell us who the father of – Peadar – is?’ Paula lowered her voice, as if the child could understand. He looked on with watery blue eyes, uncomprehending.

  ‘You’d have to ask Catherine.’ The grandmother was suddenly tetchy. ‘I’ve no more idea than you do. Is that all now? I’m a busy woman.’

  ‘All right. Thank you.’

  Behind her, the baby had seen something on the muted TV and was pointing at it. His granny poked the spoon at his mouth. ‘Quiet now, what’s wrong with you?’

  He was crying now, pushing the food away, reaching out for the screen, his sobs turning to wails. Paula followed his gaze. On the TV behind them, the news, and on it the pretty, sulky face of Peadar’s mother. Catherine Ni Chonnaill was forty years old and looked thirty, a beautiful, fair-haired woman with a strong, ruthless gaze.

  ‘Shut your face, Peadar,’ said his granny, poking the spoon at him once more.

  ‘He wants his mother,’ said Paula quietly. And who had taken her away from him?

  Extract from The Blood Price: The Mayday

  Bombing and its Aftermath, by Maeve Cooley

  (Tairise Press, 2011)

  Interview with John Lenehan

  I sent my son into town that morning. He wouldn’t have gone otherwise, you see. He was like all young lads – he’d lie in his bed till teatime if you let him. He’d this holiday booked in Majorca and I said he shouldn’t be going unless he could earn the money. You do hear all sorts of stories. Drinking and carrying on. So I says get up and change some currency if you’re going. Take it out of your post office account. His mammy’d paid for the holiday, but she was soft on him. I didn’t want him spoiled, you see. He was our only child – his mammy was near forty when she had him.

  Anyway. I make him get up and go to town and I tell him to get his mammy some shopping while he’s there. She’d usually let him keep the change but I said I’ll check the receipt. He was nineteen, you see, miss. I thought he should be working. So we had words, and he went off, all sulky like. Mary went after him and she gave him a big hug at the gate. So she had that at least. I’d been fighting with him. I have to live with it.

  I was working on the farm that day, painting a fence. Mary came down about one. I could see her running out of the house. She’d no shoes on, just running in the mud. Her hair all falling down. I knew something was wrong but I just went on painting. Until she got there, you see. Until she told me and it was all going to be different.

  There’s been a bomb in town, she says, and her face was all wild. They’re saying on the news. Come quick, come quick.

  So she runs to the house and I just put the lid back on the paint. Don’t know why I did that. And I walk. Slow like. She’s the TV on and there’s High Street and it’s all smoke. It’s like a film. Neither of us says anything. Then I goes, He’ll have been heading home by now.

  He might have gone to the shops.

  Sure he’s no cash of his own.

  She didn’t look at me, and I knew she’d given him the money. Did you phone his mobile? I hate those things, terrible waste of money they are, but I was right glad he had one that day.

  He’s not answering. Mary’s voice was all funny.

  They’ll have no reception. It’ll knock down the wires or something. Mary turns to look at me. I was well past forty when I wed her, and she was the most beautiful girl I ever saw. Danny was like her, he’d her dark hair and her eyes. I’ll never forget her blue eyes. Will you go, John, she said.

  So I get in my van. I wish to God I never saw what I saw that day. A lot of the families, they stayed at home, or they didn’t hear about it till later. I went, you see. I couldn’t get in the whole way, the army was there, but there was blood running down the street. It was sort of raining blood onto your face. The petrol station was on fire and the bank had fallen down, they said. I just keep thinking he’ll be finished by now, he’ll be finished. I kept shouting, Danny, Danny! And they’re saying, You can’t be here, sir, go to the hospital if you’ve lost someone, he might be there. There was all sirens and you could hear people screaming – you’ve seen the video, aye? It was like that, but it was worse. Alarms going off everywhere. You could smell it. The oil, and the blood, you know. Sir, they said, you have to go, and they’re in their masks and suits, and I look up and there’s the tree and in it somebody’s arm. A woman’s. The watch still on it.

  Anyway, I went to the hospital, but I couldn’t get in for traffic so I just got out and left the van there in the road and walked in.

  Yes, I found him there. He was – well, he was still alive at that point. But I told his mother he wasn’t. I told her he was at peace. Sometimes you have to lie to people if you care for them.

  Chapter Six

  Although Paula hadn’t known Maeve Cooley for long, she’d already started to think of her as a friend and colleague. But both Maeve and she had been distinctly cool for the past few months – Facebook messages long unanswered, no kisses at the end of text messages. For Paula’s part, which she knew was irrational – he hadn’t been her boyfriend since she was eighteen – it had been finding Aidan half-naked in Maeve’s bedroom that day in Dublin. For Maeve’s part, Paula guessed Aidan had passed on the news she’d given him one grey January day in Ballyterrin General Hospital, windows lashed by melting snow, herself recovering from a knife attack and barely able to walk. ‘So you know I’m . . . eh—’

  ‘Pregnant. Yeah,’ he’d mumbled, staring at the floor. She was telling him now because she’d almost died and that ought to give her a small amount of leeway, surely?

  ‘How much . . . I mean, when . . . ?’

  ‘Three, four months or so.’ She watched him adding up, his head sinking lower.

  ‘Oh,’ he’d said.

  Paula decided just to say it, ripping off the bandage. ‘I slept with Guy.’

  Aidan’s head had jerked up. She went on hastily. ‘Before us, I mean. It was – we’d found Cathy Carr’s body, and I – it just happened.’

  Aidan took this in, his face slowly hardening. ‘It’s not mine, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying I have no idea. Honest to God, I don’t. It could be . . . either.’

  ‘Can you not count? You’ve got a doctorate, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘It takes two, you know? I don’t remember you saying let’s stop and find a condom.’

  ‘I was pissed!’

  ‘Well, I was – oh, I don’t know. It just happened. And you lambasting me about safer sex really isn’t going to help. And someone just tried to kill me and take the baby, so I’d really like to not get in a row, OK?’

  Aidan had stared at the floor some more, rubbing his dark head with one hand. Nicotine stained, bitten-nailed, story notes smudged in ink on the back. His hands made her sad. ‘Have you told Brooking?’

  ‘No. I’m telling you first.’

  If she’d hoped that would placate him, there was no sign of it. ‘If you want money, tell me. Or whatever you decide.’

  She earned more than him, but didn’t say this. ‘You don’t have to – I decided to have it . . .’ (Her – it was a girl, but she felt squeamish say
ing this to him. For him, it was still just a massive problem.) ‘I thought about it a lot, you know, but in the end I couldn’t— . . .’

  ‘You were going to have an abortion.’

  She’d shut her eyes. ‘Aidan, if you go all pro-life on me, I swear to God I will kick your head in. As soon as I’m able, I mean. You don’t get to be arsey with me and moralistic. This might be my body it’s happening to but I didn’t do it on my own.’

  He looked angry, muttered, ‘Wish you hadn’t slept with him too. He’s fucking married and all. I never thought you’d be the type, Maguire.’

  Her hands clutched in the pillows. ‘I really will kick your arse when I’m better. I didn’t cheat on anyone, did I? Anyway, I thought she’d left him. She was in London. And – you dumped me, remember?’

  ‘Ah, here we go. It was years ago! Anything else you want to bring up? Did I do something in the Famine too, or at the Battle of the Boyne?’ He blinked a few times. ‘I’ll leave you be. Tell me what you want me to do.’ He paused at the door. ‘You’re not even sorry, Maguire. I know you didn’t mean it, but – me, and him, for fuck’s sake. The Brit cop. You’re so taken up defending yourself you never even think to say sorry.’

  And the news had clearly filtered through to Maeve. She’d of course taken the side of Aidan, her friend since university – more than a friend, maybe. It was something Paula tended to dwell on late at night, as the baby kicked at her insides. That’s if she wasn’t thinking about Guy playing Happy Families with his wife and daughter.

  She’d emailed Maeve to say she’d be in Dublin but there was no answer, so she drove down alone, parking her car in a side street in Donnybrook and waddling out in the warm spring sunshine. Was it OK to park there? She couldn’t make sense of the sign, it was all hours and numbers and her brain couldn’t take it in. The place was a red-brick Georgian town house, with a shiny navy door and bay trees in pots outside. Paula climbed the ten steps with difficulty and leaned on the bell. Nothing happened for a while, then it was opened by a grey-haired women holding a duster.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs De Rossa?’ Surely not, she looked too old.

  ‘Are you press?’

  ‘No. I’m – here.’ She handed over her police ID. ‘I’d just like a quick word.’

  ‘She’s not seeing anyone.’ Presumably this was the cleaner or something. Roisin Flaherty, married to the head of a big Southern bank, had come a long way from the farm she’d grown up on. The door shut as Paula thought of what to say and she found this rather rude – she was pregnant, for God’s sake.

  She leaned heavily on the bell, and the cleaner opened the door again. ‘I’m sorry, miss, you—’

  ‘Could I please have a glass of water? I’m so sorry. You see, I’m pregnant, and it’s awfully warm today, can I just – I’m a little faint.’

  ‘Let her in, Nancy, for God’s sake.’ A voice had come from further back in the house, from the hallway smelling of polish and lilies. In the gloom Paula could see a woman not much older than she was, with set blonde hair, in a cashmere jumper and dark slacks. Silver bracelets up one arm. Expensive. ‘Do come in and sit down. Nancy, would you get her some water – or tea, if you prefer?’

  ‘Tea would be lovely,’ Paula murmured, as she was led into a sitting room that was painfully formal and clean. Like a hotel, almost, with a deep grey sofa and a mirrored coffee table, navy silk paper on the walls. ‘I’m sorry. The heat gets to you, doesn’t it?’ She knew Roisin had children.

  ‘Oh yes. I remember it well.’ She stood, twisting her hands. ‘Is this about what I think?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s about your father, yes. I’m Dr Paula Maguire from the Missing Persons Response Unit in Ballyterrin.’

  The woman flinched, as if from a physical blow. She had a chunky silver necklace about her neck, which she fingered nervously. ‘I don’t think I can help.’

  The door opened and the cleaner appeared with tea on a tray, white china cups and a pot, a plate of shortbread which slender Roisin De Rossa would not eat. The woman gave Paula a fierce stare and went out, shutting the door loudly.

  Paula settled into the sofa. May as well use her situation to extract the maximum cooperation from witnesses; it was good for precious little else. ‘I’m sure this is a very anxious time for you.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I mean, he’s still your father, isn’t he?’

  Roisin took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a second. She checked the door to see if it was securely shut, then picked up a remote, which she aimed at a black stereo on the bookshelf. It looked more like a pebble in the river than electronic equipment, which showed it had been very dear indeed. ‘How do you work this thing – oh. There.’ Loud pop music came pouring out, One Direction or something, setting Paula’s teeth on edge. ‘Sorry. Kids. There we are.’

  Soothing classical, the soar of heavenly voices. Paula understood this was to mask their conversation.

  Roisin sat down, twitching at her trousers until she was ready. ‘I’m sorry you came all this way – Dr Maguire, was it?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a forensic psychologist but I work with the police team. I’m working on your father’s case.’

  Again the flinch. ‘Please, I don’t – I can’t help you. You see, I don’t know him any more.’

  ‘You’re estranged?’

  ‘Of course we are.’ Her lips tightened. ‘When I was wee, of course, I didn’t understand, and at university I was in that crowd, you know – we thought we were doing right . . .’ She trailed off. ‘I never knew what he was at. That he was actually involved in it.’

  ‘The IRA?’ Paula didn’t lower her voice, and Roisin turned pale.

  ‘Please – my kids. They have no idea. They’ve never met him. They don’t know my maiden name. We never go north.’

  Why would you, Paula thought, if you could sit in splendour in Dublin 4, with organic vegetables and clothes from Brown Thomas? ‘Mrs De Rossa. I understand you want to distance yourself from your family.’

  ‘My childhood,’ she corrected. ‘I made my own family here, with Dermot and the weans.’

  ‘OK. But we can’t find anyone who knows a thing about your father. He left the IRA, I gather, after the Good Friday Agreement?’

  ‘Yes, he was very angry. We – we still spoke, back then. He felt I’d betrayed him, you see. When I left mostly I gave up following politics. I thought there was enough fighting and blood spilled. My weans – I didn’t want them part of all that. I wanted them safe.’

  ‘And when did you find out about his role in the bomb, his alleged role, I mean?’

  Roisin lowered her gaze, biting her lip. ‘I had no idea. Really, I don’t – I mean, he was political, and he talked the talk, but to do that . . .’ Paula realised she was angry. ‘I was pregnant at the time. With my second. And that wee baby who was killed . . . Oh God.’ She gave a shuddering sigh. ‘I’m not asking anyone to be sorry for me, not when all those poor people died, but it was awful, just awful.’

  ‘I can imagine. So who told you about it?’

  ‘It was on the news. We were having our dinner and Dermot said turn that up, and I was carrying a bowl of couscous and didn’t I drop it down on the flagstones and it broke everywhere. Sixteen dead – and then his picture came up. They said maybe it was linked to his group.’

  ‘Did you believe it?’

  ‘Not at first. I rang him. I was in hysterics. Daddy, I said, they’re saying it’s you. Did you do it? He was quiet. He didn’t say no. Then he said, you should get off the line, Roisin. That was it. So – I knew. We flew to France the next day for a month. Dermot has a sister there. It was—’ She got a hold of herself. ‘So I didn’t talk to him after that. And the trial and all . . . I didn’t go. I stopped watching the news and we don’t take the papers. Dermot takes them in the office, but I told him he’s to tell me nothing. Unless Daddy actually dies.’ She looked at Paula suddenly. ‘Is that—’

  ‘We don’t know that he�
��s dead. But we’ve found the body of one of the accused Five, and the others are still missing. We couldn’t find anyone who really knew your father. Is there any other family?’

  ‘Mammy’s dead. Thank God. She never believed he’d hurt a fly.’

  It was especially sad to be glad your own mother was dead, and this made Paula feel a certain kinship to the woman. She’d often thought it would be better to know for sure that her own mother was dead, if it was peaceful, if it would have been quick. She shifted again; she needed to pee. ‘Did you know any of the others? Catherine Ni Chonnaill – she’s not much older than you.’

  Roisin’s lips tightened further. ‘Mammy used to say that woman would shoot her own baby for a united Ireland. She’s evil. Pure evil.’

  And probably also dead, Paula thought. ‘So you can’t think of anyone your father might have talked to, spent time with?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. But he cut a lot of ties after the bomb. Even the Republican hardliners, the Thirty-two County Sovereignty Movement and the Continuity lot, they felt it was botched. The warnings weren’t right, it went off too early. There was no need for civilians to die, and it cost them a lot of support in the States. That sort of thing.’

  How did she know this, if she hadn’t spoken to him since 2006? ‘Roisin. He got in touch, didn’t he?’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  ‘Please. When was it?’

  She sagged. Her voice came from somewhere near her feet. ‘A week ago. The day that he – went.’

  Right before they’d disappeared. Paula leaned forward. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t – I didn’t know it was him, of course, or I wouldn’t have answered . . . I told him never to call and he didn’t have the number, I thought – but it was him. Thank God the kids were at school.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Paula asked again.

  ‘He said – he was sorry. I said I’d put the phone down. He said, I mean I’m sorry for you, Roisin. It was your life too. And I’m sorry for all of it. And I said – I said it was too late for sorry.’