The Dead Ground

by Claire McGowan

  ‘Mrs Du— Oh.’ Fiacra stopped as a vile smell filled the room. The Jack Russell had squatted and left a fresh steaming turd on the carpet.

  ‘Darragh!’ Melissa turned and shouted. When the small child appeared again she picked the poo up in her bare hands and carried it out.

  Paula realised she couldn’t stay here another second. ‘Garda Quinn?’ Her voice was unnaturally high. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘You better get a warrant for those names. I’m not breaking Data Protection.’ Melissa was shouting after them as they beat a hasty retreat to the door and back to Fiacra’s Fiat Punto. ‘You’ll be hearing from my solicitor!’

  ‘God, what a tip,’ Fiacra said, starting the engine. ‘She’s mad as a box of frogs, that one. Our Aisling went to the Bates woman when she first found out she was expecting – she wasn’t going to have the abortion, but you know how it is, she was scared – anyway, that crowd were there picketing the place. Put her off going in.’

  ‘How is Aisling?’ Paula asked, thinking of the girl. She’d also had an unexpected pregnancy, but now she was full of joy and excitement. So it was possible.

  ‘Ah, she’s grand. Frightened, like, but she’ll be OK. She’ll do a better job than your one in there, I’m sure. Poor kids freezing to death, and on a day like this. Aisling might not be with the da but she’ll love that wean, and she’s her family around to help.’

  Paula’s numb hands crept under her coat to sit atop her thick jumper. So would she, if it came down to it. She’d do a better job too, and she had people to help her. But still the idea made cold dread percolate through her veins. She looked down and realised something was crumpled in her hand – that picture of the foetus, eyes black holes, head curved like a fragile little alien.

  ‘Is this really all we’ve got?’

  Guy was pacing in front of the whiteboard in the small conference room. Bob, his suit ironed into the same lines as his old RUC uniform, watched him anxiously, as if trying to learn the walk and the talk. Glances went between the kids – if Guy and Bob were the adults – Avril widening her eyes significantly at Fiacra, Gerard catching Paula’s gaze before shrugging and biting his nails. No one wanted to go first. Despite Corry’s warning, the press had discovered the location of Dr Bates’s body, and the news had run all day with speculation about why she’d been found on an old pagan site.

  ‘Come on, everyone, you must have something.’ Guy was irritated.

  Fiacra coughed. ‘Sir. We looked into possible pro-life extremists in the area, like you said.’

  ‘Yes?’ Guy snatched at the information.

  ‘And, and – we’ve a few hits on cross-referencing with hospital staff. Similar names or addresses. Might lead to nothing, but you never know. The Dunne woman says we have to speak to her solicitor if we want the names of her group.’

  ‘Let’s do that. Paula, what about your cognitive interviews?’

  ‘I’m supposed to go in tomorrow and do some. What about the faith healer, are we any closer to finding out her real name? Magdalena must be an alias, surely.’

  ‘Yes.’ Avril pushed forward a newly printed sheet of paper. ‘I got this off the Guards this morning – she asked for a driving licence under her real name years ago.’

  ‘Which was?’

  Avril read out, ‘Mary Conaghan. Born in 1960, near Tallaghmar.’ She struggled with the Irish name. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Donegal, I think,’ said Paula. She’d been there on holiday once, with PJ and Margaret. A desolate place, with the same kind of beauty as bones stripped of flesh. ‘It’s remote. Very poor in the sixties. She probably moved to Dublin to find work. Where does the Croft bit come from?’

  ‘She was married.’ Fiacra took up the story. ‘She married a man called David Croft in the late seventies. We lose her for a while, and then she resurfaces as Magdalena in this breakaway church in Dublin. Her real name was still Mary Conaghan – Avril found it on a tax return, of all things.’ He gave the analyst an admiring sideways glance. ‘Then she started up with this priest, Father Brendan, and she pops up here and there on the news archives. Healings, miracles, spiritual retreats, all that. Somebody gave her a load of cash and she opened her own centre for a time, in Dublin’s north side. Sort of a church crossed with a hospice, by the sounds of it. People would go to her and get cures.’

  Guy was listening intently. ‘Can we tie her to anything, any crime at all?’

  ‘Well, there’s lots of rumours in the press, sir,’ said Fiacra. ‘Extortion and that, getting people to give her money for this church she wants to build. I suppose it sort of . . . well, if you believe she sees the Virgin, you’d think she was a saint. But if not . . .’

  ‘She’s a manipulative charlatan,’ Guy finished. ‘I know what I think. I think I’d like to interview this Magdalena for myself, see what it is she does. Paula, will you come with me?’

  Paula nodded, eyes lowered. She had no desire to see Magdalena Croft again. The woman’s scrutiny had felt like plunging a hand into a muddy pond. All manner of things were now swirling in the eddies, after years buried in silence.

  Gerard chewed on his cuticle. ‘Are we saying there’s officially a link between the cases, sir? The baby and the doctor?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Guy’s eyes landed briefly on Paula. ‘Paula thought there could be. We know Magdalena Croft spoke out against the abortion clinic, but then so did pretty much everyone else in town. What else?’ Guy stopped, and pressed his fingers to his temples. ‘As you know, Dr Bates’s daughter didn’t come home last night after identifying the body. Officers spoke to her husband and he says it’s very out of character. She rang him before she set off, he says. She was upset, but she’d planned to drive straight home. She’s eight months’ pregnant at the moment, so we’re going to launch an investigation right away. Let’s get out the usual alerts – TV and radio, posters, and we’re talking to anyone she might have known or turned to for help.’ He stopped again. ‘Anyone else feeling a bit overwhelmed by all this?’

  There were noises of agreement. Guy said, ‘We’ve had the results of Dr Bates’s autopsy through. As you know, she was found with a scalpel in her hand. This was covered in her own prints, but no one else’s. The pathologist thinks she made the cuts herself – but there were ligature marks on her wrists, and also traces of barbiturate in her system.’

  ‘She was drugged?’ Gerard squinted at the papers in front of them, a list of long chemical names from the toxicology report.

  ‘It looks that way. She must have been kept somewhere for several days – why, we don’t know. Then we believe she was driven to the standing stones and forced to commit suicide.’ Guy’s voice was toneless, but around the table everyone blanched. Avril bit her lip, pushing back the autopsy papers. Paula tried not to think of it – stumbling in the heavy snow, the sound of your breath in your ears, hands bound behind you, and then – cold ice beneath, cold steel at your belly. She shuddered. Guy caught her expression. ‘Any thoughts, Paula?’

  ‘This kneeling – it’s a classic execution pose. The paramilitaries used it. Of course, they usually shot the person in the head. Not cutting like this.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I – ’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘Honestly, I have no idea. We could look into similar old cases, but I can’t see what the link would be.’

  Guy took this in for a moment. ‘I think we need to prioritise Heather Campbell and Darcy Williams’s cases for now. We can also continue the background work and analysis on Dr Bates and Alek Pachek, but finding the missing needs to be our focus. Paula, you’ll carry on working across all cases, as DCI Corry requests.’

  ‘OK.’ She thought of the business card tucked into her notebook and remembered she needed to phone the DCI. What was that about?

  ‘Everyone else, go on with your tasks as discussed. As there’s no
solid lead on Heather Campbell we’ll carry on with the usual, CCTV, traffic records, friends and family. Hopefully she’ll turn up safe. Thanks, everyone.’ Guy seemed to be rushing through things today, and as soon as they had finished he looked at his watch and went into his office, shutting the door. What was he up to?

  Hopefully she’ll turn up safe, he’d said. It was strange, Paula thought, as she got wearily to her feet. Research showed most people who went missing were fine and well somewhere – there was some kind of crossing on their line, an unravelling of the knots that kept them from drifting, but they were alive, and safe, and breathing. Yet somehow all the ones referred to their small run-down station ended up in the murkier waters of the unknown.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘OK, Chris.’ Paula looked at the six foot seven man across from her, trying to put him at his ease. She didn’t imagine he found himself in too many situations he couldn’t control; the guy was huge. He was very nervous. ‘This should be straightforward.’

  ‘You’re not going to like, hypnotise me?’

  ‘No, it’s not hypnotism. I don’t suggest anything to you. I just help your mind relax and possibly remember things you’ve seen but forgotten.’

  Chris Jones was a nurse on the maternity ward at Ballyterrin General Hospital, shaven-headed, tattooed. Ballyterrin not being the most progressive town, Paula wondered how the Mummy Mafia felt about having him weigh their precious newborns and check their episiotomy scars.

  ‘Only I saw this show once on telly, and this fella hypnotised people to take off their clothes and that.’

  Paula didn’t think she could cope if that happened. ‘I’m not Derren Brown. I’m just going to relax you, and maybe then you’ll remember if you saw something that day.’

  He was buzzing with nervous energy. ‘I mean, I want to help catch the person, of course I do. We’ve never had this happen here before. It’s a nice unit, we look after the wee ones well. Can’t believe someone’s taking babies. This town used to be safe. Now this murder too – it’s hard to take in.’

  ‘Well, if you can help us work out who took Alek, it may be we could find Darcy too. Can you close your eyes for me?’ Paula nodded to Gerard, who dimmed the lights in the on-call room they were using, clattering out to guard the door. He was sceptical about the idea, but had agreed to help her out. He hadn’t much choice.

  She made her voice low and soft. ‘How do you feel, Chris?’

  ‘OK. Worried.’

  ‘What can you hear?’

  ‘Eh – I can hear noise outside, footsteps, phones – the nurses’ station.’

  ‘And further away?’

  ‘Cars. The road outside.’

  ‘Good. Focus on those sounds for a while, Chris, and just breathe slowly for me. In, out, in, out. That’s it.’ She waited as the awareness exercise went on, his large shoulders sagging as he breathed.

  ‘Now. Can you feel the chair under you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you hear my voice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. I want you to think only about those things. If you get distracted, focus on the sounds outside again. I’m going to bring you back to the day Alek was taken. It was a Tuesday. Do you remember coming to work?’

  ‘Um . . . I normally bike in but it snowed so I drove. I can’t remember much about the day.’

  ‘That’s OK. Whatever you can. Remember coming into the lobby? The sound of the doors. The lift?’

  ‘I walked up,’ he said. ‘The lift was bunged, so I walked up. I knew there’d be chaos.’

  Paula made a note. ‘Good. When you came onto the ward, who did you see?’

  ‘Um . . . the obstetrician, Dr Rasmus. He was pissed off because one of the nurses misread his chart. He’s got awful writing. So I sorted that out. I’m head nurse, see.’

  ‘Right. Then what? Did you have a coat?’

  ‘Normally I’m in my bike leathers, and I get changed, put my helmet in the locker and stuff, but that day . . .’ He fell silent. Paula waited, listening to the muffled sounds from outside. ‘It was all wrecked,’ he said finally. ‘Loads of people couldn’t get in with the snow. The phone kept ringing and one of the receptionists, Sandra, she was bringing me lists of who wouldn’t be coming. So I said phone round and see who’s off; if they live in town they can make it. If you’re out on some farm, you see, you can’t get your car going when it’s bad.’

  ‘Sure. So who was in that day?’

  ‘Not many people. Sandra, me, the doctor, Louise, Betty, Matt the porter, er . . . the ultrasound tech got in, I think . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We split the patients up between us and did what we could. Dr Rasmus wasn’t a bit happy, so I was sort of trying to take the brunt of it off the girls, you know? I reckon I saw two patients, and then I was on my way to the Pacheks. She’d have been out that day, Kasia. She was doing grand, stitches healing well.’

  ‘What did you see?’ Paula leaned closer, her voice soft.

  ‘I went out of another room. It was a Mrs, Mrs—’ He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. ‘Mrs Markey. Wee boy. I checked her C-section and went out. I passed – oh.’

  ‘Do you remember something, Chris?’

  ‘Yeah, I—’ He blinked his eyes, blue and striking. ‘One of the midwives had come in to help. I suppose Sandra rang her. She lives in town, I think.’

  ‘Who was that?’ She braced herself for him to say Tess Brooking. Guy’s wife.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know her name. She’s got dark hair. It’s hard to know them all.’

  Dark hair. That could have been Tess, all right. ‘Was it unusual for a midwife to be there?’

  ‘Not really. It was all hands on deck. Sandra must have got her in, I’d say. Maybe she’d know.’

  ‘Did anyone else come in?’

  ‘Yes, throughout the day. It’s why we were so messed up – I’d have to check all the timesheets to say who definitely was in that day. Accounts would have them.’

  ‘OK.’ Paula made a note to get that done. ‘Chris – can you tell me anything else? Anything around those moments when Alek was taken?’

  His eyes were fully open now, full of the same helpless annoyance she recognised. The team had been living with it ever since this case came up. ‘No. I’ve been racking my brains. I can’t even remember where I was when it happened. You know, the father waited about twenty minutes before he came to the nurses’ station – he thought it was a real test she’d taken the baby for. Then he came up – I remember this bit – he’s all tired, God love him, doesn’t want to bother us, and he just asks politely when the nurse might be back with the child, since his wife’s ready to breastfeed, and . . . God.’ Chris ran his hands over his face. ‘Thank God the baby turned up safe. But I worry, you know, Dr Maguire? I worry every day someone’s going to come back and do it again.’

  Paula could have lied to him, soothed, said they were on top of it and the babies would be fine. She didn’t. She leaned over the table to him, switching off the tape recorder. ‘So do I, Chris, to be honest. You keep watching them.’

  On her way out, waiting for Gerard to finish chatting up the nurses at the station, she stopped by the glass of the main ward. A woman dozed in bed, her baby tight against her body. Both of them red and exhausted, locked into each other. Paula watched for a moment, staring at them.

  Oh God. She wasn’t ready yet.

  She looked down the corridor, trying to catch Gerard’s eyes and tap her watch. Or rather her bare wrist, since she didn’t have a watch. Hurry up, she mouthed.

  ‘You’re ready then?’ Gerard strutted down the corridor.

  ‘I’ve been ready for ages. Can we go? DI Brooking and myself are supposed to go to Croft’s again today.’

  ‘All
right, all right, no need to be so narky. I’ll bring the car round.’

  She almost ran out, but couldn’t resist a final look back to the Maternity Ward. Where she was headed, if she didn’t do something soon.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ As soon as Guy turned his car into Magdalena Croft’s lane, the car was mired in traffic. The quiet country road was nose to nose in vehicles, people already getting out and walking so that it was impossible to drive any further. The air vibrated with the distant squeal of a loudspeaker.

  ‘I don’t know. We better just park up.’

  The crowd seemed to be flooding to the mansion where the faith healer laid her head. The atmosphere would have been that of a rock concert, except instead of pierced teens clutching carry-outs, the attendees were virtually all middle-aged or older. Some led children by the hand, and among the crowd wheelchairs were being pushed, spokes sticking in the muddy banks of the road, where snow had hardened to icy patches. No one spoke or met each other’s eyes. The only sound was feet trudging through the melting snow and mud.

  Paula and Guy ducked in among them. ‘There’s definitely something up,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen a crowd like this since Glastonbury.’

  She couldn’t picture him at a festival, but ignored this. ‘I think they’re here for her. It’s like the videos on her site.’

  They followed the crowds round behind the house, where the gate to the field had been left open. Beside them, a boy on crutches was being helped over the cattle grid, his legs cruelly twisted. Paula suddenly realised what it reminded her of – a film they’d watched in school, the pilgrims in Lourdes flocking up the grotto, bathing in the scummy water and casting their sticks aside.

  ‘It’s some kind of prayer rally,’ she started to say to Guy, but she was drowned out by the crackle of a handheld loudspeaker.