The Lost (15 page)

‘So many,’ Paula murmured. It was almost overwhelming when you looked at it like this – hundreds of people just vanished. Like a conjuring trick, you opened the box and they’d gone.
Where are you? Where are you?
The questions came back, empty echoes.

‘Look at this,’ said Avril, holding up one file. ‘This wee boy, Johnny Burke. He was six when he disappeared out of his own birthday party.’ She frowned at the paper. ‘Where could he have got to? It says his mum just turned her back to look for matches for the candles, and he was away.’

Paula was rifling through the stacks. ‘It’d be a family member, usually. Murder, or accident. Or sometimes kids are stuck somewhere and can’t get out, like a bog or a ditch. Even a cellar, I’ve seen.’

Avril looked stricken. ‘You’ve done a lot of these? Wee kids and all?’

‘Yep. Kids, teenagers, old folk – a lot of people go missing in London.’

‘And you don’t – you don’t feel upset, like?’

Paula pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘I did at first. You get used to it.’

‘I wouldn’t want to get used to things like this.’ Avril pulled out another paper. ‘Mum with four wee ones, disappeared on the way to the shops, 1976. Someone must have taken her. I mean, she wouldn’t just leave her kids, would she? It’s awful.’

Avril clearly
didn’t remember who she was saying this to, so Paula kept her face neutral. ‘I don’t mean to sound horrible, but you sort of have to get over it. Or else it’s just too much, every time.’

The girl sorted in silence for a while, her blond hair falling over her cheek. ‘Paula, is it true what Gerard – I mean DC Monaghan – said, about you and that reporter?’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Paula carefully. ‘We were at school and we went out for a while. I mean, not the same school. I was at St Bridget’s actually.’ Just in case Avril wasn’t sure how to broach the religion issue. Best to get it out of the way. ‘What about you?’

‘I went to Down Upper.’ That was it done. ‘So it was true about you and him.’ Avril sounded disappointed. ‘Gerard was on about it and I said I didn’t think you’d go with the likes of him.’

‘He’s not the worst.’ Paula lifted another file. ‘He’s been through a lot.’

Avril seemed uncomfortable. ‘I know. We prayed for him in chapel.’

It was always there between you, when you spoke to someone from the other side. How many of ours have you killed? And us yours? Although in this case Aidan’s father had been gunned down by his own ‘side’, for the truths he’d dared to write in his paper.

Avril was fiddling with her hair. ‘You think he’ll take our photo, for the paper?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Oh. I didn’t want to say in front of Uncle Bob, but I put a wee colour in my hair sometimes. Wouldn’t mind a touchup, if there’ll be pictures.’

Paula smiled
to herself. ‘I won’t tell. There’s a salon down on Flood Street, I hear. I might check it out sometime.’ It was the one beside the Mission, and for a moment it flashed in her mind again, that building on the forlorn end of town, its walls steeped in so many years of misery, now ringing with laughter and light and fervent joy.

Some more time later, the door to Guy’s office opened and Aidan came out. The two men were laughing forcedly, shaking hands. ‘Great to see the dedication of the team,’ said Aidan. ‘I’ll be sure to give it a big write-up next week.’

‘Always happy to help the press.’ Guy’s smile was stretched.

Aidan took a good gawk round the office, running his eyes over Avril, who blushed and bent her head to the files. He spotted Paula. ‘Ah, there’s yourself, Maguire. Hoping to get a wee word with you too for the paper – local girl back from London, blahdey blah.’

Paula looked at Guy, who nodded. ‘That’s a good idea.’

‘Grand, grand, will we go for a jar so, Maguire?’

She looked pointedly at the clock. ‘It’s only lunchtime.’

‘Fair enough. A sandwich, then?’

‘I suppose so,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Is this OK?’ she asked Guy quickly, putting her jacket on as Aidan ambled out to the front and lit a cigarette.

Guy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe you can get him to help. He seems to know a lot about the town.’

She sighed. ‘He does – it sort of runs in the family. Shame it’s buried under all that gobshitery.’ Whoops. She had to stop swearing in front of the boss.

Guy just blinked. ‘I don’t trust him, not one bit. But see what you can get out of him. Maybe it’ll encourage more witnesses to come forward for our old cases.’

‘OK.’

‘Listen, Paula—’

‘Yes?’ She turned on her way out.

‘If you’re free tomorrow lunchtime, it’s the funeral.’

For a moment she didn’t understand. ‘Oh. Cathy’s funeral? They released the body?’

‘Yes. I
should go, to pay my respects. Would you come with me, maybe? It’s just I don’t know the area, and—’

She’d have to be his native guide. ‘Of course. See you later.’

‘What do you be taking now, Maguire? Some manner of macchiato or crackiato or whatever you call them in the Big Smoke?’ They were queuing at the counter in a small coffee shop over the road. When Paula was younger there’d been not a single one in Ballyterrin; now there were dozens.

‘Just tea’ll do.’

‘Fair enough, staying true to your roots. I’ll get this.’

She sat down and he brought over a pot of tea and a ham baguette, with a slice of carrot cake for her. ‘I know you’ll get weak in the head if you don’t have your feed of sugar.’

‘Thanks.’ Grudgingly, she nibbled at the food. Aidan had a black coffee, and she pointed at it. ‘They teach you that habit in Dublin?’

‘Even the mammy does be drinking coffee now. With your da, as it happens.’ He winked and she looked away, irritated.

‘What do you really want? It’s not like you to make amends.’

He fiddled with the spoon in his coffee, holding it like a cigarette. ‘Had a wee look into some of the things you said, and you were right about your man’s son and all that. I’m not one to kick the fella when he’s down. Not that I trust him as far as I could throw him.’

She blew on her tea, realising the two men were more alike than you’d think. ‘So you got a fit of conscience, then. Was it called Pat?’

He laughed. ‘She might have had a few sharp words. But I think we could get our heads together and find out some more about all these cases.’

‘That’s all we’ll be getting together,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what do you know about this Mission down in Flood Street?’

‘The one
the kids are all off to? Let’s see, they came to town round about July time, I think. Part of some big American church, all that hand-clapping and guitar-playing and Jesus saves. I mean, Christian rock, Maguire – Kurt Cobain’d turn over in his grave. They were in England before, picked Ballyterrin ’cos it’s near the border, I s’pose. They set up in the schools and do plays and that, get the kids to swear off drugs, sex – all the fun stuff.’

She refused to meet his eye. ‘What would you say to digging a bit of dirt on them? Religion stories are big sellers, aren’t they?’

He considered it. ‘It’d have to be more than your regular sex abuse. Sad to say, but we’re up to our eyes in that in Ireland.’

She told him that the only thing they could find linking Majella Ward and Cathy Carr was that both girls had gone to the Mission, and she described her encounter with the creepy Ed. Aidan looked interested. ‘Now then. I wonder what they get up to down there?’

‘Here’s something else – another girl who went there may have killed herself a few months back.’

‘Would that be Louise McCourt?’

‘Yes, poor kid. But no one wants to look at a link.’ Suddenly she saw he had one hand in the pocket of his coat, and she lunged her arm across the table at him. ‘You better not be fecking taping this.’

‘Jesus, Maguire, it’s the Creamery we’re in, not Watergate. I’m after my pen.’ He produced the blue ballpoint in evidence and began jotting down notes on napkin. ‘Anything else you want dug up?’

‘Well.’ She looked round her, but the café was quiet for a weekday, just one young girl behind the counter, with striped hair extensions and headphones in. ‘Eamonn Carr. You know anything?’

‘Aha. The plot
thickens.’ He held his hand about a foot above the table. ‘That’s the height of the stuff I could give you on him. He’s a whole ton of companies and not a few of them steer close to the wind. Lending money; waiting till people default then seizing their houses to sell on; this new development down at the docks – you know about it?’

Paula’s mind was whirring. ‘Dad mentioned it. And seeing as the traveller camp’s taking up a fair portion of the land, he’d be wanting rid of them?’

‘Oh yes. The travellers have a High Court appeal in, but Eamonn Carr’s got the council in his pocket, even the Prods – ever since he waved a bit of money in their faces. So he’ll get his luxury waterside homes in the end, and the travellers’ll be out on their arses. But the thing is, Maguire,’ he leaned forward, ‘his wee girl’s dead, isn’t she? And as you and I know, Eamonn Carr’s not the only crook in this town who’s driving around in a Merc. Doesn’t mean he had anything to do with the poor wean ending up in the canal.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I know. I can’t even say what I think, I’d be lynched. But there was just something weird about the family. It didn’t ring true, somehow.’

‘I’ll look into it. Thing is though, he’s got lawyers from here to Dublin who’ll shut the
Gazette
down faster than you can say “injunction”. And I can’t afford to fight them.’

‘Finances not too good, then?’

‘Let’s just say we’re about one stapler away from disaster.’

‘I see. So this Mission, you’ve looked into them before?’

‘Yeah, same problem. Lawyers all over them like a rash. They might look nice and happy-clappy, but there’s some serious American muscle behind these fellas. I tried to do a story about them setting up here and they weren’t one bit pleased about it.’

‘Maybe you can see if there’s been allegations against them. Cult stuff, extorting money, abuse.’

Aidan drained
his coffee. ‘They’ve a big prayer concert coming up. All the schools are involved; it’s supposed to be good for cross-community relations.’

‘Yes – he said. The leader guy, I mean – Ed something.’

‘Ed Lazarus, he calls himself. Blond fella, ponytail?’

‘That’s him. Lazarus – surely to God that’s a fake name. We should find out the real one.’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘Am I to gather from all this that you’ve already been snooping round?’

‘Not snooping. Just looking for a youth club for Mary – you know, my niece.’

He laughed out loud. ‘And you an only child. Well, well, it’s Paula “Miss Marple” Maguire.’

‘I do my best.’

He twiddled the pen in his fingers. ‘You’re not going to tell me what old cases your man Brooking’s investigating, are you?’

‘I can’t. It’s too soon, he says – might upset the families. So far there’s nothing to really link them, anyway. It’s not very responsible of you to print it, causing panic like that. Making people think we’ve some kind of serial killer in town. I mean, there’s no evidence for it.’

‘Hmm.’ She could see he’d caught the scent of a story, like a dog sniffing the air. ‘You’re not a very good liar, Maguire. Never were.’

She ate the last bite of carrot cake. ‘I can’t say any more. I better shoot. Thanks for the cake, I suppose.’

‘No bother. Am I forgiven my trespasses?’

She looked at him for a long time across the table, until he smiled, sheepish, and said, ‘Only a joke, Maguire. Say hello to the wee blonde girl for me.’

‘Ha! Avril wouldn’t give the time of day to a boozy Taig like yourself.’

‘Let me
guess – Protestant schoolgirl, runs a Sunday school, teetotal?’

‘She’s Bob Hamilton’s niece,’ said Paula, and heard him laugh again, and made herself go. She had to be clear about one thing. He might be a useful person to dig up dirt, but that didn’t mean for one moment that she forgave him. Their banter was fragile as ice, a layer spread over the fathoms between them. She leaned over close to him as she stood up. ‘Aidan, are you going to your mum’s for dinner?’

‘Suppose so – I normally do. Why so?’

She sniffed. ‘You better get a shower before you go. I can smell the JD from here.’

Back in the office, Paula saw that Avril had arranged the old cases into piles, adding Post-its to each to identify them. One was marked
Women aged 31–50
. Paula rested her hand on it, knowing the name she didn’t want to see would be buried there in all that paper, under the layers of dust, and time. ‘Have you looked at these yet?’ she asked innocently.

Avril was in the small kitchen annexe off the main office. ‘Not yet. I was doing younger girls first, like you said.’

‘Right.’ Maybe Guy wouldn’t make the link. After all, Maguire was a common enough name. She leafed idly through the pile that said
Women aged 15–30
, then slowed down. She fanned the papers out into a row and looked over the details again. ‘Avril?’

The girl poked her head round the door. ‘I’m making a cup of tea, since I finally finished the scanning. Want one?’

‘I’m grand – what are you doing with these papers?’

‘Oh! I just put them in order, like. Was it not right?’

‘No, no, it’s fine. Did you notice anything?’

Avril came forward, puzzled, a carton of milk in her hands. ‘No.’

Paula held up a sheaf of paper. ‘These are all girls, right? Under twenty?’

‘Yes.’ Avril
peered at the papers.

‘Look.’ Paula snatched up a yellow highlighter from Avril’s desk – she was the kind of person who always had a full set of stationery – and traced out a phrase.

Avril read over her shoulder. ‘
Church group
.’

‘And this one too – the same phrase.’

‘They both went to church groups, and then they disappeared.’ Avril set down the milk and shuffled through the papers. She frowned. ‘Here’s another. A coincidence?’

‘I don’t know.’ Paula’s heart was beating hard. ‘The cases are all from different areas – Galway, Cavan, Limerick – all in the South.’ Her mind was whirring. The link might not always have been noticed right away – not over so many years, cases from all over the country . . .