Who Took Eden Mulligan?

by Sharon Dempsey

Rose looked out of the car window. Northern Ireland sure looked a whole lot prettier in the sunshine. In her memory, it was a dull, grey place, with pavement markings of red, white and blue, or green, white and orange, depending on which side of the community you found yourself in.

  ‘Christ, I only called in for a catch-up. I didn’t expect to spend my day knee deep in a crime scene,’ she told him. ‘The Killing Moon’, an old Echo and the Bunnymen song, came on the radio. She glanced over at Danny and caught his eye before smiling. They’d both got drunk and played that song many times.

  ‘Sure, you know me. Never a dull moment. This song takes me back. Do you remember dancing to it at the union bar?’

  ‘No, I think that must have been some other girl. I don’t dance.’

  ‘Oh, but you do. If I remember correctly, it requires a brave few vodkas, but Rosie Lainey has been known to pull a few moves. I even think I’ve pictures somewhere to prove it.’

  He turned up the radio and sang along. She couldn’t help but smile. He hadn’t changed. She wondered why she had let him drift away. Danny Stowe was probably the best friend she had ever had.

  When they were back at the station, Danny grabbed some lunch for them both from the canteen.

  ‘We’ll get peace if we eat it down here,’ he said, placing the tray containing two packets of cellophane-wrapped chicken salad sandwiches and two Diet Cokes.

  ‘It’s not like the old days when the boys in balaclavas phoned you up to tell you what they’d done, only too happy to take the credit. This one’s got a bit of intrigue about it, wouldn’t you say?’ He looked at Rose and she held his stare. He was working hard to draw her in. No small talk, no ‘what have you been doing with your life?’ One of the perks of being a psychologist meant that you could read people well. Danny wanted her – no, needed her – but she hadn’t yet worked out why. She had no doubt that he was good at his job. Whatever had happened to see him assigned to cold cases on the Historic Enquiries Unit had been a blip. She was sure of it. He would prove himself worthy once again and move on.

  ‘This one’s going to be messy and drawn out. I can feel it in my water,’ Danny said, checking his emails.

  Rose sat on the end of his desk, almost knocking over a pot of pens. ‘You can keep your divining water to yourself. Okay, tell me, what do you think you are dealing with?’

  Danny rubbed his hands together as if he was readying himself for a big job.

  ‘A house like something out of the land that time forgot, in the back arse of nowhere. Three dead bodies – now identified as Olivia Templeton, Henry Morton and Theo Beckett – all mutilated. We’ve one survivor in intensive care – Dylan Wray – and then the girl, Iona Gardener, who walked in off the street to announce the murders. She’s also currently in hospital. I’d say we’ve a lot going on.’

  ‘Plus, don’t forget the “Who Took Eden Mulligan?” scrawl over the fireplace. What’s that about?’

  ‘I was hoping you were going to tell me,’ Danny said.

  ‘I haven’t even agreed to open the case notes yet, so don’t be expecting me to have any illuminating insights.’

  ‘Yeah, but you are interested, aren’t you? You’ve done a lot of work around false confessions.’

  ‘Been keeping tabs on me, have you?’ She raised an eyebrow.

  He had the good grace to look slightly sheepish. It was true she had specialised in working with witnesses and ensuring credible testimony, which included uncovering coerced-internalised false confessions. It was an area of research she had been interested in since her uni days when she had done her dissertation on suggestibility and negative priming.

  ‘Hey, I look you up from time to time. Make sure you’re still living. Can you blame me when you don’t do Facebook or care to pick up the phone? Friendship’s a two-way street, you know.’

  She looked down. ‘Okay, if for old times’ sake, I talk to my boss and ask for six weeks’ leave to work with you, how would we go about it?’

  ‘I thought Iona’s confession would be hard for you to resist.’ He smirked, looking pleased with himself. ‘I’ll have a word with McCausland. The false confession thing needs a professional like you on board. Like I said, this is a big investigation. We can’t afford to get this wrong.’

  Rose wasn’t going to admit it, but she was glad to have been asked to consult on the case. Her work in London was starting to drag and she had resorted to reviewing case studies, writing up reports and doing all the dull shit she swore she’d never do. She never handled inactivity well. This Dunlore case looked interesting even before she had delved into it properly. Rose could see the attraction of proper police work.

  Maybe it was time to come back. Evelyn was dead so Rose had little reason to stay away anymore. In some ways, it would always be home, even if it had meant fear, lies and danger. She’d run to get away from all that, hoping that her degree course in Liverpool would offer her a different kind of life. Now she realised that she’d achieved everything she’d hoped for, but at a cost. Her life in London was uncomplicated, just as she wanted it to be, yet sterile. No messy family dynamics.

  That had suited her fine but now she wondered: was she missing out?

  When she thought of Liverpool and her friendship with Danny it was always with fondness. He had taught her how to relax, to live a little. He’d dragged her to clubs in dodgy areas and made her forget her reluctance to dance to stupid rave music, knock back shots of foul green liquid, and laugh at herself.

  Initially she had kept her distance from Danny as she didn’t want to cling to the only other Irish student in her lectures. She’d gone out of her way to escape Northern Ireland after all and she figured life would be simpler if she left all connections with home behind. Try as she had though, Danny had been hard to avoid.

  Once, he took her to a party of people he had met at the library. Standing in the queue to check out books he had naturally – for him – got into a conversation and discovered they were hosting a party that night. When they’d arrived, after ten, it was in full throttle. REM was playing and some fella was pogoing with such force that it was only a matter of time before he whacked into someone and started a fight. The atmosphere had had an edge to it that suggested someone had supplied pills and Rose could smell cigarette smoke laced with weed. She never partook in any of that herself. She never wanted to take anything that rendered her loose-mouthed and out of control.

  Danny had leaned in close to her and said, ‘Hey, do you think we’re the only sane people here?’

  ‘Looks that way. Don’t recognise half of them. You said the house is rented by a pile of medics; they are always a bit whacko. Must be the long hours and all the blood and guts.’

  Danny smiled at her. ‘There’s a few from our course over there.’ He’d jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen as he spoke. Rose caught sight of a couple of girls she knew from her seminar. Neither of them appeared to be bothered by the rowdiness of the crowd. By comparison, Rose felt gauche and innocent, like a poor relation fresh from Northern Ireland. The others, with their accents and posh schools, had a sense of confidence and entitlement that Rose envied.

  At times like this, she felt out of her depth. When she had lain in bed, back home in Belfast, imagining this new life, she’d pictured herself struggling in the lectures, having to work hard to keep up, when in reality the work was fine. It was the social side of things that she found challenging. She didn’t have the right clothes, the right haircut, the right bag. When she opened her mouth, she was immediately seen as different. Other. Danny had made the transition easier for her. He attracted people, and by being his friend Rose had found that she didn’t need to make too much effort to be included.

  Now she realised that she was tired of feeling like the outsider. Maybe it was time to give Belfast another chance and get to know it all over again.

  CHAPTER 8

  As it happened, Bernard had been more reluctant to allow Rose the leave than she thought he would be. He sounded
concerned that she was prepared to stay in Northern Ireland to do police work without any prior notice.

  ‘Belfast? Are you sure?’ She could hear the incredulousness in his tone. The unspoken ‘why’ left hanging.

  ‘Bernard, it’s not like the stuff you’ve seen on TV over the years. They’re actually civilised now, you know.’

  The truth was, Rose hadn’t a clue what it was like now. Sure, the peace process had brought about a stability that she’d never imagined could be possible. Growing up in a ghettoised nationalist area, all she had known was violence and intimidation. Riots and Land Rover Saracens. Army searches, handbags checked before going into shops in town, a sense of something about to kick off all the time. But Belfast had moved on, even if the rest of the UK hadn’t realised. The Troubles had been the soundtrack of her childhood – police messages played out on secret transistor radios, plastic bullets, bin lids rattling out a coded warning down rain-washed entryways, shoot to kill policies, knee-cappings and the rally cry as petrol bombs were launched towards police barricades. Home sweet home. A far cry from Bernard’s middle-class Shropshire background. She couldn’t explain it to Bernard any more than she could explain it to herself.

  It had taken some time, but Bernard had eventually agreed and Danny had squared it with his superiors. Before she knew it, references, proof of qualifications and other administrative details were all being emailed across from her HR department in London. Apparently, Danny had argued that the need to have a psychologist on board was vital, owing to the fragile mental state of Iona Gardener.

  When Danny called Rose to share the news, he told her McCausland had given in when he had been told that she was the best in the business. She had been assigned a desk in the basement of doom and was to report to McCausland first thing in the morning.

  ‘I need to nip out for a little while tomorrow,’ she said.

  She heard Danny do a mock sigh down the phone. ‘Jesus, first day on the job and you’re already slacking off?’

  ‘It’s a family funeral. I did tell you I had come over for family business.’

  ‘Anyone close?’

  ‘No, not really, but I said I’d attend. I shouldn’t need to be away for more than a couple of hours.’ She had never explained her family to Danny and she wasn’t going to start now.

  ‘All right, no bother. I’ll cover for you.’

  ‘See you tomorrow then.’ She hung up and decided if she was staying the full six weeks, she’d need to sort out some clothes. Thankfully, she had brought her laptop with her and the apartment she’d rented for her visit would be fine for accommodation. It was central and not too expensive. Her flat in London would be stuffy by the time she returned, and she dreaded to think what she’d find growing in her fridge, but she was kind of glad of the change. Left to her own devices, she probably would have stayed working for the parole board until she’d died of boredom. Danny’s timing was perfect. This case was the shake-up she needed.

  The funeral was held in St Malachy’s chapel in Alfred Street. Rose slipped in at the back and watched as her family gathered themselves into the front pews. It was a beautiful, ornate church. The vaulted ceiling reminded her of icing on a wedding cake and had a Gothic feel to it, though she recalled learning at school that it was designed in the style of the Tudor period.

  She turned her head and looked at the mourners. Some looked familiar, faces from the past, aged and altered but still recognisable. She jolted as she saw the one face she had hoped not to see. Sean Torrent. He had loomed large in her childhood. A thickset man who wore an air of repressed violence, as if he was at odds with the world and everyone he encountered in it, he was a figure who demanded fear and respect in equal measure. She hated how her mother had revered him, had answered his every call and dirtied her hands clearing up his messes. Sean Torrent was an IRA commander. Funny how when she was young, Rose had never known to put that title to his name. It had taken time and distance to enable Rose to see him for what he was: a murdering bastard who had a strange hold over her mother. There had been knocks on the door in the middle of the night and whispered voices in the hallway. Usually Evelyn would be whisked away – to do what, Rose was never sure. Her imagination filled in the gaps.

  The funeral mass was predictable, its familiar rhythm coming back to her, soothing and hypnotic. Funny how some things stay with you, she thought. It was as if the responses had been branded into her DNA and came out of her mouth without conscious thought. Parts of the mass had changed since she had been a regular attendee as a girl, but she felt the intimacy of it carry her along. Her brother Pearse stood and walked to the altar to do the first reading from St Mark’s gospel. His voice lulled her into nostalgia, and her mind drifted back to the days when they were kids. He had always been messing about with Colm, the two of them fighting over which television channel to watch. There was only a year between them, so they had seemed like a pair to her, always getting in her way or making her late because she had to mind them when her mother had taken herself off God knows where. Now, she realised, she didn’t really know either of her brothers. She had left before they were teenagers. In her mind they were still just annoying kids.

  Colm was at the altar now and was reading. ‘The response to the Psalm is: to live in the house of the Lord … all the days of my life.’ The congregation echoed the words back to him. She had yet to talk to Colm. He had held back at the wake and had avoided her. Being the youngest of the family, Rose had the sense that their mother’s death would hit him hardest. She could remember him crying when being left by their mother as a small child. He always needed reassurance that she’d be back soon.

  There was one evening he had fallen off the bunk bed – he had been playing about with Pearse and ended up tumbling from the top bunk, hurting his shoulder. He had sobbed in Rose’s arms as she tried to console him, crying for his mummy to come and make it all better. Rose could still recall the feel of his damp cheek buried into the crux of her neck as his little arms and legs wrapped around her like a monkey. He had been a cute kid. All pudgy limbs and fair curly hair.

  Afterwards, the mourners gathered in a local hotel function room. Platters of sandwiches arrived, and Rose helped herself to some tea. She could sense uncles and aunts talking about her and caught the odd stare, as if she was a gate crasher, here for the free food and drink. She stood at the edge of the room, refusing to get involved. What was the point in chatting or pretending that she shared their grief? It had been a mistake to come. She could see that now. She had promised Kaitlin she would stay for an hour but already she was glancing at her watch and wondering if she could slip off quietly. She was scanning the room, looking for the easiest route out, when Kaitlin appeared at her side.

  ‘We’re heading back to Ma’s house this evening. Just us, the immediate family. You will come, won’t you?’ There it was again, that pleading cloaked in assumption. Like she owed them something.

  ‘Kaitlin, I don’t know. I might be working.’

  ‘Working on what? I thought you worked in London?’

  ‘I do, but I’ve been asked to confer on a case here for a few weeks. I thought I’d stick around for a bit.’

  Kaitlin nodded in approval. ‘All the more reason to come tonight. We want to see you. Spend some time with you. The wake wasn’t the place for that.’

  Rose considered what that might mean. Recriminations, accusations. She didn’t have the strength for it. ‘Listen, Kaitlin, I left. It wasn’t as if you didn’t know I was okay. I made sure you all knew I was alive and well.’ She had written to them explaining that she was studying in England. ‘Life moves on. I don’t expect any of you to understand but I needed to go,’ Rose said.

  ‘Roisin, we just want to see you. That’s all. You’re here now, so why not make the effort to give us a bit of your time? Don’t you owe us that much?’ They stood watching two young children play with plastic straws, pretending they were swords, swiping at each other and giggling.

  Rose turned t
o Kaitlin. ‘I’ll see if I can get away. No promises, though. I have to get back to work now. What time will you be back at the house?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Right. I’ll try.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Rose was grateful for the distraction of work. The gathering of Evelyn’s clan had been unnerving. Too many people who knew too much about her. She was used to being in her own contained world. No one to question her past or to share in her shame. It was better that way. Coming home threatened to crack that protective shell right open.

  Danny had set up a desk for her opposite his and she busied herself reading the information about the murders that had been logged into the system.

  ‘So, we have a confession. The holy grail of crime solving, but we’re pretty sure it’s worth shite all.’

  Rose watched him as he strode across the room, stopping at the high-up window to peer out at the rectangle of clear blue sky, before he returned to his chair. He had spent the morning in the incident room, making sure that his team had been assigned tasks and were following through. Rose had opted to stay in the background.

  ‘We’re more than pretty sure.’

  ‘What, so you don’t think there’s any possibility that Iona did it?’ Danny asked.

  ‘No. Not by herself, anyway, since the victims were moved. If she is of average height and build for a girl of her age, then there isn’t a chance in hell she acted alone. She couldn’t have carried the bodies up those stairs.’

  ‘As much as I hate kicking a gift horse in the mouth, I know you’re right. But she has to have been involved in some shape or form.’

  Rose stood and stretched but quickly sat again, suddenly conscious that she had been showing a glimmer of her taut midriff. ‘What could her motive have been?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Well, what we do know at this stage is that if she did do it, she didn’t do it alone. I’m still not convinced she was at all responsible. But then my next question is: why claim she was if she wasn’t?’