The Silent Dead

by Claire McGowan

  Paula watched her slim long legs depart. ‘That’s a development,’ muttered Guy. ‘He must be twice her age.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Paula was thinking about Lily, and realising this: there was one way to get to someone who’d lost everything, and that was to give them something else that could be taken away.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’ll get back to us.’ The house had taken on an uncomfortable air, naked and embarrassing. As they went out to the car she noticed Guy staring round the side of the house. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘The Lotus he drives . . . not very practical for a job putting up solar panels, is it? He’d need something else too, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I suppose. Why?’

  Guy nodded to what he was looking at, and she saw – parked around the side of the house, not hidden in any way, was a dusty white van.

  Extract from The Blood Price: The Mayday

  Bombing and its Aftermath, by Maeve Cooley

  (Tairise Press, 2011)

  Martin Flaherty was set on the path to murder almost as soon as he was born. Raised in a staunch Republican family in South Armagh, his father was killed by an Army patrol in 1971, right at the beginning of the Troubles. The soldiers responsible were not only not prosecuted, they remained on active duty. Young Martin quickly had to take on responsibility for the family. He joined the Armagh Brigade of the IRA in 1972, alongside many current Republican luminaries, including Jarlath Kenny, now mayor of Ballyterrin – although Kenny has officially denied any knowledge of Flaherty or of IRA membership. Flaherty called Kenny a ‘turncoat bastard’ after the 1998 Good Friday Agreement.

  In 1999 Flaherty set up a splinter Republican group, calling itself Ireland First. They were on anti-terror radar from the beginning, but dismissed as a small operation, no more than ten people. However, sometime between 1999 and 2006, the group managed to get hold of large quantities of plastic explosive. During March and April 2006, unbeknownst to intelligence, they were building a huge bomb at Flaherty’s home near the border. On 1st May 2006 they drove this bomb into Ballyterrin and concealed it in a bin that was on the route of a planned Orange parade later that day. They put it there and walked away, planning to detonate the bomb by mobile phone at the moment the parade passed by. The aim was to kill members of the Orange Order, disrupting the peace process and taking down a Unionist politician who was leading the parade that day. However, the bomb went off ten minutes after they walked away – a vague warning had been phoned in, without any recognised code words. A car had also been parked haphazardly further down the High Street, and police efforts were focused on trying to move this. No one realised the danger was in the bin, near to where people were being evacuated. The bomb exploded at 11.17 a.m. on 1st May 2006. Ten people were killed instantly, hundreds injured. Six more died later in hospital.

  The PSNI immediately suspected dissident Republicans, and the leaders of Ireland First were arrested within days of the blast. Despite Flaherty owning the mobile phone that was linked to the detonator, and there being clear traces of the agricultural products used to make the bomb in Lynch’s car, and the presence of Doyle’s van in the town that day, and DNA linking Ni Chonnaill to detonators found in other devices, Brady’s own semi-confession, and many other obvious clues, a series of procedural blunders and plausible deniability meant that when the Five were eventually brought to trial in 2010, it collapsed. It is now not possible to bring another criminal case against them. They have, in the words of Dominic Martin, walked down the street covered in blood and gotten away with it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘What did Corry say?’

  They were back in the car. Guy hung up the phone and shook his head. ‘She says it’s too circumstantial – lots of people have white vans round here, and we never got a reg from either crime scene.’

  ‘Can we search it?’

  ‘Think how it would look. She’s not keen. I think we need to carry on with these interviews and see what else comes up.’

  She sighed. ‘All right. What about the caves, did we find anything more? There was lots of DNA found, right, not just from the Five?’

  She didn’t want to say what she was thinking, but he knew. ‘Corry won’t authorise DNA testing right now either. Not until we have a clear suspect in mind with other evidence to back it up. Same with handwriting samples.’

  ‘So what can we do?’ She was shaking her head in frustration.

  ‘Just keep looking. The other three must be somewhere, after all. The search team’s been out in the mountains – they must have been moved somewhere else after the caves. Let’s see if we can get any information today.’

  ‘All right.’ She turned a page in the file on her lap. Paula kept track of the interviews via a series of photos. On each page a dead person, and their immediate family or significant others. A map of loss, the dead and the roots still holding them in place. A map of devastation. Now they were at the Woods’ house – this was the family of the odd, helpful teenager, Kira. The father had died years before.

  Like every house they came to, it seemed to be marked by an invisible sign of grief. The lawn wasn’t cut, and the paintwork on the door was peeling. It took a long time for it to be answered, by a shuffling middle-aged woman in a tracksuit. She had chipped red polish on her nails and they could smell alcohol on her breath. It was eleven in the morning. ‘Mrs Woods?’

  ‘Yes. Who is it?’ She was blinking as if she’d been asleep, squinting in the daylight.

  Guy spoke. ‘We’re from the MPRU – the missing persons unit. I wonder if we might ask you a few questions?’

  She moved to let them in. All the curtains were drawn, and the house had a foetid air, as if the bins hadn’t been taken out. ‘What’s it about?’ In the living room she sat down on the sofa, yawning.

  ‘About the Mayday case, Mrs Woods. May we sit?’

  ‘Oh. All right.’

  There was a noise of light feet and Kira appeared in shorts and a T-shirt with a puppy on it. Her hair wasn’t brushed and she had a wary expression.

  ‘Hello, Kira,’ said Paula, sinking into a saggy armchair. ‘Are you off for your Easter holidays?’

  She stood poised, as if ready to bolt. ‘Er – yeah. Why’re you here?’

  ‘We’re talking to all the families separately. This is my colleague, DI Brooking.’ She was slightly younger than Guy’s daughter, Katie.

  He smiled warmly. ‘Pleased to meet you, Kira.’

  Kira crossed the room to the sofa where her mother was. She was doing something furtive with her feet, which puzzled Paula, until she realised the girl was trying to hide her mother’s bottle of vodka from them. She averted her eyes. ‘Kira was very helpful to me at the group meeting, Mrs Woods.’

  ‘I don’t go there,’ she said listlessly. ‘It brings it all back, you know. It’s upsetting.’

  ‘Is that Rose?’ Guy indicated the large studio portrait over the TV. A pretty girl with a smile that suggested she’d tell you all her secrets and keep yours. She’d had that naturally fair hair which is so rare.

  ‘My little girl,’ said Mrs Woods, with a small sob.

  ‘I’m your little girl too,’ said Kira, too loudly. Her mother ignored her.

  Guy pressed on. ‘Mrs Woods, we’re just doing routine enquiries to see if anyone in the group has knowledge about the disappearances of the so-called Mayday Five. I know this must be very hard, so if you could just tell us what you know, we can be on our way.’

  ‘What would I know? I don’t know anything. First I heard was on the news. They showed the pictures again – the petrol station burning. I can’t bear it. Every time I just think, that’s where my Rose died. That’s her dying, that smoke rising up.’

  Kira rolled her eyes. ‘Mammy doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t go out. Do you want to see where we were on the day they went missing, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Paula was impressed; the girl was quick.

  ‘An alibi.’

  �
��That’s right,’ said Guy. ‘We need to just collect them, then we can leave people in peace.’

  ‘Mammy was here,’ Kira shrugged. ‘She won’t have an alibi but she sometimes rings people during the day so you can check that.’

  ‘What people?’ Guy was writing.

  ‘Psychics and that. The government, to complain about stuff. The doctor.’ Kira’s mother was staring into space.

  ‘Thank you. Can I ask about your father, Kira?’

  She started. ‘What?’

  ‘Your dad, Rose’s dad, he passed away?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s dead. I was like three. I can’t remember. I was at school that day they went. If you need an alibi for me too.’

  Guy was almost smiling. ‘Thank you. That’s very helpful. Dr Maguire was right.’

  Kira didn’t look pleased at the compliment. ‘Will you go to everyone? Lily too?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll see Ms Sloane.’

  ‘Even the McShanes? The Sheerans? Not everyone comes to the group, you know. Sometimes people get too upset.’

  Mrs Woods seemed to rouse herself. ‘Are you trying to get the people who hurt my Rose?’

  ‘We’re trying to find them, yes,’ said Guy gently. It was technically true, after all, if not in the way she meant. She was crying again.

  ‘My poor Rose! She never hurt a fly. She made mistakes, but sure don’t we all do that! Please can you find them? Please.’ Her body had gone slack, knees gaping, mouth open and wet with tears.

  Kira shifted over and patted her mother’s shaking shoulders.’ It’s OK, Mammy. They’re doing the best they can.’ She looked up, and her eyes were the oldest and wisest Paula had ever seen. ‘You should go.’

  They rose, Paula with some difficulty. ‘I’m sorry.’

  As they went to the car, she tried to identify the hard nugget that had lodged itself in her gullet. Shame. She felt ashamed. These people had the heart torn right out of them, ripped and gutted while still beating, and here she was smearing more blood on their door.

  ‘You OK?’ Guy was putting his seat belt on. ‘I must say, this is one of the most difficult cases I’ve ever worked on. I can’t keep track of moral north.’

  He was being kind, giving her a chance to say she was also struggling, her system flooded with hormones, balanced herself on the edge of life and death. Instead she heard herself say, ‘I think we’re going to have to look at Martin’s van. It’s too much of a link to ignore. Can we try to persuade Corry?’

  ‘OK. I’ll try.’

  Requisitioning the van of a grieving father. That would go down well. They drove back to the station, sunlight glinting off car windows and the dark river at the heart of town almost navy today. Paula found she couldn’t shake the image of Rose Woods, and the smile that said all she’d expected out of life was to love and be loved back.

  Kira

  The road to Rose’s place was along a street of houses. Ugly little ones, with bins in the small front gardens and those stones stuck into the walls. Rose had told her this was called pebbledash. It wasn’t where she’d have liked to go to chat to Rose. Ideally they’d have gone to the café Rose liked after school and had milkshakes out of the blender, or driven out to the beach and paddled their feet in the cold waves, or even just sat at home in the warm kitchen. But this would have to do as Rose could only be in this place from now on.

  Rose loved flowers. Daffodils best. They look like hope, she’d say, cramming them into every glass in the house until Mum shouted to get those mucky flowers out of there. It was a kind of magic, how you’d put in tight buds and even if you stood there watching them you’d never catch the moment they opened, but they did. Magic. One of the houses on the street had some in its garden, all yellow and happy and with a smell that reached down the street. No one was looking. She put down her school bag and hopped over the low stony wall. The stalks of the flowers were thick and juicy, and she grunted as she snapped them, getting soil and sap on her hands. Was it like the flower’s blood? Did it hurt them?

  Don’t be silly, pet.

  OK, Rose.

  She took them in one hand and walked to the end of the street, where she swung open the rusty gates of the graveyard. Rose was at the end of the row, next to an old lady who had high black walls round her, handy for sitting on, and those sort of green stones over her. Rose just had grass. At first, it got very long – Mammy never came, and Kira didn’t know how to cut grass. Then an old man saw her with some scissors, crying over it, and he did it from then on.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said out loud. ‘I got these. Do you like them?’

  There was nowhere to put the flowers. She needed a jar or something. She made a little hole and stuck them in the ground, then took out the two Capri-Suns she’d brought from home. One she popped and one she left for Rose. She always brought one. It was always gone when she came back.

  She drained the juice; it was a long walk from home. ‘They found one of the men,’ she said, hesitantly. But maybe Rose knew already. ‘It was on the news and Mammy sat in the bathroom crying all night. I couldn’t get in to pee. They said he hanged himself but it wasn’t that. You know.’ She’d told Rose before. ‘So what do I do?’

  No answer, only the breeze through the graveyard, and far away, a family raking over the stones on someone’s grave. Someone they loved. That’s what you did when you loved a dead person. You put up shiny black stones and jewel pebbles and threw away any rotting flowers. Rose’s stone was grey, and unlike some it didn’t have a picture of her. It just said Rose Sarah Woods. 1983–2006. Beloved daughter and sister.

  She crouched down and pressed her head to the stone, until it hurt a bit. It was very cold. ‘I miss you, Rose,’ she whispered.

  There was no answer. Sometimes, if she listened very hard, she could almost hear Rose in her head.

  ‘Will I do it? One of them’s gone. The rest will go too. And they want me to . . . will I? For you?’

  No answer. In a tree at the corner of the graveyard, a bird began to sing, high and piercing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Extreme grief had a look about it. It was like being very tired or very hungover. Your movements slowed down, your eyes heavy and blinking, as if the world had gone into slow motion. It was a look common to the families of the Mayday dead.

  On arriving at Ann Ward’s house, Paula was surprised to find the place full of people. Then she remembered – it was Easter Monday, which had almost entirely passed her by. The door was opened by a middle-aged man holding a toddler on his shoulders, chocolate smeared round its face. ‘You must be the police. I’m Sean Ward, come in.’

  Paula was trying to place everyone as they were led through to a kitchen/living room full of adults and children, who all stared at her bump. Sean was the other son – the one who wasn’t the father of the baby who’d been killed. Both the child and his grandfather had been called Patrick Ward.

  Ann was there, a child of about three sleeping half in her arms, half on the sofa. The child was sucking her thumb while the house around her rang with shouts and screams and the low-level hubbub of chatter. Open Easter eggs were much in evidence. A crowd of young women were in the kitchen doing things with cling film-wrapped dishes. ‘Would you take something to eat?’ said one to Paula and Guy as they were led in.

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Clear over there,’ said Ann to a boy of ten or so who was engrossed in an iPad game. ‘Turn that ould thing off and let the lady sit down. Go out and play.’

  He went, grumbling, and Paula sat down on the sofa beside the other, sleeping child, who stirred, fidgeting. Guy perched on a stool. Ann wore the same boot-faced expression as always. ‘So you’ve questions to ask, do you.’

  ‘Yes, but is this a bad time? We don’t want to interrupt the party.’

  Ann seemed surprised. ‘There’s no party. This is Patrick’s family, and it’s only right they’re here to see what you have to say.’

  ‘All right.’ Guy looked about him – people were car
rying on their conversations, and a seemingly endless conveyor belt of children ran in and out from the garden where a trampoline was drawing shrieks and howls. ‘Should I just—’

  ‘Mary!’ Ann shouted. A pale, very young-looking woman detached from the gaggle in the kitchen and came over, leaning on the arm of the sofa. ‘This is my daughter-in-law,’ Ann said. ‘She’s the mother of wee Patrick.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said Guy. The woman didn’t react.

  ‘Wee Patrick’s daddy is in the garden,’ Ann went on. ‘He won’t talk to you. Patrick Senior and myself, we’d two boys and three girls. All these –’ she indicated the house and the hordes of people in it – ‘these are our family. Every single person here lost a father or grandfather that day, and a nephew or a cousin or a child.’ Mary Ward dropped her head but said nothing.

  ‘We understand that,’ Guy began.

  She fixed him with a glare. ‘Do you? Then I have to wonder why you’d come round here trying to help the people who took our hearts and smashed them.’

  ‘We have to ask all the families,’ said Guy. ‘We just want to rule people out, then we can leave you alone.’

  ‘And it’s alibis you’re wanting, is it?’ She made the word sound ridiculous. ‘Well, I do mornings at Victim Support in town and I’d have been in the office that day. You can check with them. Same with all my family. We’ve all jobs, all hard-working people. I’m sure you can follow that up easily enough.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Guy, making notes. Paula was sure it was just to give him something to do. ‘And I understand you’ve been secretary of the group since it began?’

  ‘I used to be a school secretary,’ she said, ‘so I know what’s what. I do the minutes and make sure we follow the law, and keep track of the bank accounts and compensation and all that. Some people weren’t too good at filling in the forms, you see.’