The Silent Dead

by Claire McGowan

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Guy said.

  ‘It’s not your fault. At least it’s something.’ And it was, a bit of solid ground she could rest her feet on.

  ‘If it’s true. It was so long ago, and most of the files are classified.’

  ‘It fits, though. Her boss at the solicitors, Colin McCready, he’d heard some rumours too. And—’

  And there was the man. The day before her mother’s disappearance – October, dark and cold already – Paula had come home to find her mother in her dressing gown. That was strange enough. Even stranger, she’d been talking to someone at the back door. No one ever came there. Her mother had closed the door rapidly as Paula went in, asking her normal questions and telling her not to make toast as dinner was nearly ready, saying she’d come home sick from work. Going past the kitchen window Paula had seen a man, an old-fashioned hat hiding his face. He’d gone down the narrow side passage and left. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Guy this, give him this private little memory like a thorn in her flesh. ‘It fits,’ she said again.

  ‘Well – that’s all I could find out. I hope it helps, in some way.’

  Paula took a drink of her water, now muggy and warm, and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Was she wrong to pry open this box, long buried? Sometimes she thought it was better not to know. But she couldn’t let it rest, not now she’d opened it a crack. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s OK. I want to help.’ The strained look returned to his face. ‘Can I see her, since I’m here? Please? I’d just really like to see her.’

  Paula said nothing.

  ‘I know you’re not ready to find out.’ He spoke in a rush. ‘I do understand, it’s best for her, and to be honest, I think Tess – well, it would be very hard on her right now. At the moment she’s managing to pretend it isn’t happening. But I haven’t even seen Maggie. I’d like to. Is that OK?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I need to feed her anyway. Stay.’ It wasn’t as if he’d given her much choice.

  ‘Thank you.’ He looked intensely relieved. ‘I wanted to tell you what’s been going on with the case, anyway. If you’re interested.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I want to know everything.’

  ‘Well, there’s not much to tell. No sign of Kenny or Flaherty, though we’ve thrown all our resources at the search. You can imagine the media interest since the notes were released. We’ve also not been able to trace the source of the leak, so all information is being restricted. Corry’s been interviewing to see if it’s an internal leak but we haven’t found any evidence yet.’

  She was pleased he was telling her; that meant she was no longer under suspicion. ‘OK. Listen, you know how Fiacra’s been lately . . . Did you ever think, you know?’

  He said nothing for a moment. ‘I know what you mean. But like I say, we’ve found nothing. One other thing is that Catherine Ni Chonnaill’s mother has given consent for a DNA test on the child. The youngest one.’

  Peadar. She pictured him, snotty and bewildered, and remembered that despite her best efforts, his mother was never coming home to him. ‘Is she allowed to do that?’

  ‘The mother’s dead, and we don’t know who else has parental responsibility, do we?’

  It was close to the bone. ‘OK. And what did it reveal? It definitely wasn’t Lynch?’

  ‘No. And here’s the interesting thing – he wasn’t the father of the girl, either. The older boy, yes, but not the girl.’

  ‘And who was? Do we know?’

  ‘Same as Peadar. Turns out we already had his DNA.’

  She was growing impatient. ‘Tell me, Guy.’

  ‘The father of Catherine Ni Chonnaill’s two youngest children was Martin Flaherty. We’ll need to ask his older daughter for a comparison to make sure, but the lab is pretty confident it was him.’

  Paula had to assimilate this. ‘They had a relationship? Ni Chonnaill and Flaherty?’ He was fifteen years older than her.

  ‘Looks that way. And at the same time as she was with Lynch.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why he called her a whore in court.’ The topic seemed to become too heavy, and she fell silent, fiddling with the drip. ‘Well, thanks for telling me.’

  The silence was broken by the nurse bustling in with Maggie in her cot. ‘Here we are! Here’s Mummy.’

  Paula froze for a second, then breathed in. It had to happen sometime, after all. She accepted the baby into her arms, and tried to cut short the nurse’s curious glances. ‘Thanks. Could I just feed her by myself today? I’ll call if we have trouble.’ She knew there was fierce speculation on the ward as to who might be the father of the wean – was it the cop who’d brought Paula in that day, or the angry-looking man in the band T-shirt? She’d have told them the truth if they’d asked – she had no idea.

  Guy stood by the door, where he’d moved to let the nurse in. ‘That’s her then.’

  ‘No, it’s another random baby.’ But there was no sting in her voice.

  ‘I’ll leave you.’ He got up, buttoning his suit jacket.

  ‘You don’t have to. It’s a bit dull. Talk to me.’

  She tucked the sheets up to hide her breasts – ridiculous, he’d already seen that and more besides – and gasped as Maggie latched on. ‘Good girl. She’s getting the hang of it. They struggle sometimes, when they’re premature.’

  Guy watched her from the door.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, for form’s sake. She didn’t care if he minded.

  ‘Of course not. I always thought – it’s beautiful, isn’t it? I envy women that. The bonding. It can be hard for men. You just know they’re yours, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, that and she came ripping out of me, yes.’

  The silence shrouded them, soft and warm. Paula let herself breathe. Knowing he was watching her. She said, ‘Would you like to hold her? When I’m done?’

  He said nothing for a while. ‘I – another time, maybe. I should go in a minute.’

  She nodded. She felt Maggie’s mouth sag and transferred her, the scrabble and pop as she latched on, the relief of it.

  ‘It’s amazing.’ Guy was watching, not averting his eyes politely from her breast. It would be worse somehow if he looked in the middle distance, as other people did. ‘How do you know how to do it?’

  ‘It’s not that easy at first. After all, I never saw my own mother feed. I’m an only child.’ That she knew of. She quailed suddenly. Thinking of what the murderous psychic had told her months before, when Maggie was just a whisper inside her – your mother’s alive. Alive over the water. There’s another family. She’s forgotten about you.

  It wasn’t true. How could she know? But on the long winter nights, as Maggie turned over inside her, Paula had found herself worrying over the details of other things the woman had known, or seemed to know – that she was having a baby, that it was a girl, that Guy might be the father. Now she found herself looking from the curve of Maggie’s face to the broad sweep of his forehead, the high cheekbones. ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’ she asked. How could she not know this about him, when they’d worked together so closely they could almost hear each other’s thoughts?

  ‘A sister,’ he said. ‘We’re not that close.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Was I right to tell you all that? I wasn’t sure if I should.’

  ‘Guy. Will you please stop trying to protect me? I’m a grown-up, I’ve been without my mother now for longer than I ever had her.’

  ‘I can’t stop,’ he said simply. ‘It doesn’t work that way. Even if you don’t want to be protected, I have to try. Was it really worth it? To find out – that?’

  ‘Yes.’ She answered right away. ‘I decided a long time ago I had to know. Whatever the truth was, it doesn’t kill like lies do. Like you said – there’s a law for a reason.’

  ‘You do listen, then.’

  ‘On occasion.’

  He shifted. ‘I must go. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do, at all.’


  ‘Bring me work. Anything. I’m mad with boredom.’ But she knew that wasn’t at all what he’d meant.

  ‘I’ll leave you two in peace. I’ll do my best to look into that for you, I promise.’

  You two. She wondered if there would ever be three.

  ‘Guy?’

  ‘Yes?’ He stopped in the door.

  ‘When I’m out of here, do I need to look for a new job?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The unit – if it’s going to be axed, you need to tell me. I’m on my own now with Maggie.’

  ‘It’s not going to be axed.’

  ‘But they’re discussing it.’

  ‘I won’t let that happen. I didn’t want to worry you with it. It will be OK.’

  ‘Just please – tell me, if there’s anything I need to know.’

  ‘I promise. And since you mention it, when you’re out, when things are a bit settled, maybe . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’ She waited. The silence between them stretched.

  Guy was staring at his feet. ‘Things are different now. You have the baby. And you and I . . . well, I think we need to decide what we’re going to do.’

  Paula spoke carefully, looking at the baby and not at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s talk when you’re out.’ He crossed the room swiftly and planted a quick kiss on her forehead before she could react. ‘Look after yourself.’

  When he went, she felt strangely bereft, his kiss still burning on her skin. She couldn’t even begin to process what he’d almost said, or not said. And it reminded her once again that Maggie was now three days old and Aidan, who at the very least was her step-uncle, still hadn’t even come to see her.

  Extract from The Blood Price: The Mayday

  Bombing and its Aftermath, by Maeve Cooley

  (Tairise Press, 2011)

  On the day of the verdict Ni Chonnaill was all in black, her lipstick like a scar across her face. Her lawyer asked if she could stay seated for it as her legs were painful, and this was agreed to. The men stood, as if preparing to take a penalty shoot-out. The jury was, by its very nature, made up of ordinary people. Eight women and four men. Almost all white, given the area. The youngest was nineteen, the oldest seventy. The foreman was a middle-aged woman in a suit, by day a civil servant.

  She said they had reached a conclusion. The judge asked what it was. She hesitated. The judge asked again, a little tetchy. The families were all on their feet, except those too old to stand. She said, Not guilty. For Brady. For Doyle. For Lynch. For Ni Chonnaill. And for Flaherty. She said not guilty five times in all. The evidence had not been enough. The flimsy case of the police and CPS, error-ridden and bungled even before the bomb stopped smoking, had not been strong enough. As she sat down, the forewoman looked up to the gallery, as if to say she was sorry.

  I don’t think any of the families ever blamed the jury. They knew the case didn’t hold. After all, they’d sat through every word.

  There was the sound of shouting as the prisoners were taken down to be let out. Murdering scum! They should be strung up! It isn’t right. It isn’t right.

  The person shouting those words was Dominic Martin. He was restrained by bailiffs, and the dock was opened and the prisoners stepped out, blinking as if they couldn’t quite believe it themselves. None of them looked at each other.

  Doing my interviews for this book, I spoke to the solicitor for Ni Chonnaill, Grainne Devine. She was defensive, giving me a string of legal arguments about due process and right to trial. In the end I stopped asking why she defended people like the Mayday bombers, and simply asked how it made her feel. Standing up there with the eyes of the families boring into her. She thought about this for a moment. She is a young woman, stylish, assured. She said, I feel like I’m doing my job. I feel like I’m lucky to live in a country where we have the right to be presumed innocent, no matter what the evidence looks like, and you can’t really understand what that means until you’ve defended someone who looks guilty as sin. She said, If I were ever to be on trial, on the other side of the dock, I’d want to know someone was defending me.

  When she put it like that, I couldn’t argue.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘You’ve a visitor, so you have,’ said the nurse. It was the young one, who wore a pink uniform and thick glasses and was very rough with her pillow-plumping technique.

  ‘Who?’ After five days in hospital, Paula was getting fed up with visitors being sprung on her. She much preferred it the other way, arriving at people’s doors to question them.

  The nurse tittered. ‘A fella. Dead handsome.’

  Aidan, she assumed. Girls always went silly around his air of tortured abstraction. Finally, the bastard. She was already planning out how to be – aloof, making it clear his behaviour was as usual not acceptable, and yet there was a quickening in her pulse at the idea of seeing him. But as she pulled herself up to sitting, she saw someone totally unexpected approach across the ward. Dominic Martin. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved navy shirt buttoned tight. He had a few days’ stubble growing. ‘Eh – hi.’ She’d last seen him on the other side of the interview room glass.

  ‘Hello, Dr Maguire.’ He was carrying a Pampers box. ‘I’m sorry to land in on you. I rang the office and they said you’d had your baby – a little girl. This is her?’

  ‘Er – yeah.’ It was clearly Maggie beside Paula’s bed in her cot. She’d insisted on white Babygros only, though Pat, knowing unfortunately that a girl was expected, had already bought up the entire stock of frilly pink clothes in the Ballyterrin area.

  ‘What’s her name?’ Dominic was looking at the baby.

  ‘Maggie.’ She wanted to say – I named her for my mother. She’s gone. She’s probably dead. She wanted somehow to make a connection in their loss, but couldn’t. He stood alone, and she was here with her brand-new child.

  He seemed to realise he needed to explain his presence. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I had a lot of toys in the house for a baby girl. Some of them never got opened – they were birthday presents.’ Of course, Amber had died just days shy of her second birthday. ‘I wondered if you’d – I mean they’ll just go to waste otherwise.’

  Paula understood. In this box he had packed up his dead daughter’s toys to give to Maggie.

  ‘Maybe you’d think – but she never got these ones, there wasn’t time, and I’d like them to get played with. You know.’

  She had to say something. ‘That’s really kind of you. How nice.’

  He placed the box on the bed and she looked into it. Pink plastic, a rag doll, colourful picture books. ‘She’d be too wee for them now,’ he said. ‘But later . . .’

  Paula took a deep breath. ‘Would you sit down, Dominic? I’m going spare here. I’d be glad of the company.’

  He sat on the edge of the plastic chair. ‘They’ve kept you in a while then.’

  ‘Just a few days, they said. She was a bit early, and I had a caesarean.’ She felt embarrassed talking about this with him. A suspect, however much she tried to avoid it. It was hard to believe he wasn’t one of the men the Walshes had described. The nervous one, driving the white van. Paula looked at him. He was a good-looking man, and this bringing the toys was a heart-rending act of small kindness. Could she really see him arranging the murder of five people? They had no idea how extensive the leak was – did that explain why they’d not been able to pin any evidence on him?

  ‘It’s boring, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I was in myself after . . . everything. Amazing how boring it all was. Waiting for your tea to come, hoping they’d put something decent on the telly.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were injured too.’

  ‘Just my back.’ He touched it. ‘Burns and cuts. I lay on top of her when it happened. When the roof of the bank came down. But the shock waves, they said – well, she was too wee to stand it.’

  Of course, she remembered now. He’d covered Amber with his body, trying to shield her, but they’d b
oth been buried in the rubble when the bank collapsed. Paula realised she should say something but couldn’t find the words. Her mind was as exhausted as her body.

  He changed the subject. ‘I had another visit from your boss. The English fella. Asking me all about the mayor and did I know where he is. He is your boss, is he?’

  ‘Yes. DI Brooking.’

  ‘We’re happy to help, as long as he’s sensitive to people’s loss. I know it might not seem like much, if you’re over from England, but to us it was – devastating.’

  ‘His son died.’ She said it before realising she probably shouldn’t have. But she hated the way some locals looked at Guy, the fair-haired Englishman with the military bearing, coming over there telling them to sort out their differences. They didn’t know what he’d been through.

  Dominic’s face was still. ‘I didn’t know. How old?’

  ‘Ten. He got killed. In London.’ Jamie Brooking had been shot because of his father’s job in anti-gang work, but she shouldn’t say that.

  Dominic nodded slowly. ‘I’m sorry for his loss. Can’t be easy to work on cases like this, then. Trying to find murderers who killed wee kids.’

  She could have said, It’s a job to him. He doesn’t know how to break the rules even if he wanted to. She could have said, He really believes in it, a fair trial and acquittal and innocent until proven guilty. He really believes we have a duty to look for everyone who’s lost, no matter what they did. Instead she said, ‘Thank you for the toys. It was very thoughtful.’

  ‘I hope you get some use out of them. Amber didn’t.’

  There was a silence that was painfully full of unsaid things and suspicion and apologies and he stood to go, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His forearms were tanned and strong from working outside. Why had he come – to make a point, to get them to back off? To show he was a decent man, whatever she suspected him of? She wanted to ask how Lily was, but baulked at it.