The Lost (16 page)
‘Paula?’ Avril’s blue eyes were anxious. She wore no makeup on her clear pale skin. ‘You think there’s a reason for it? They’re all linked?’
‘I don’t know.’ She tried to slow her thoughts, her heart-rate. It could be nothing. ‘People go missing for all sorts of reasons. But I wonder. Avril? Are you any good at Excel?’
‘Of course. I passed top in my analyst training.’
‘Reckon you could knock this up into some kind of chart? See if there’s any more cases in the database with this keyword – “church”, or maybe “mission”?’
Avril raised her chin. ‘Only if you’ll be sure and tell Gerard you can too fight crime with spreadsheets.’
‘I will. That other girl too – Annie Miller. The suicide, from 1985. What’s the best way to find out about her?’
Avril glanced at their other colleague’s desk, on which stood no fewer than four dirty coffee mugs and a screwed-up paper bag that had contained a pasty. ‘We could get Fiacra on it. Annie lived near the border, if I remember from the file.’
‘OK. And if you
can maybe pull the suicide stats too for this age group . . .’ Paula fell silent as Guy burst from his office, phone in hand and a strange wild expression on his face.
‘They’ve had a hit from the CCTV – Cathy got into a car on her way home. They ran the plates.’
‘And?’ She could feel the tension course through the three of them.
‘It’s
her next-door neighbour.’
Gerard Monaghan was already scowling when Paula met him at the PSNI station. Did he have any other expression? He’d be all right if he smiled, she decided. He had nice white teeth and a sort of brooding darkness that could be attractive.
‘What took you so long?’ he demanded.
‘Er, I practically had to leave my kidney with your desk sergeant out there, that’s what.’
‘Security’s tight.’
Paula had been astonished by just how tight it was, used to England where anyone could walk straight into the station reception. Here it was still bombproof glass, barbed wire, ID in triplicate. ‘I’ve seen prisons that are laxer.’
He glared at her. ‘I suppose you’re here to tell me how to do my job. I know how to run interviews.’
‘I’m not here for that,’ she lied. ‘But maybe we could talk it through first?’
Gerard sighed. ‘We got the CCTV off the garage she passed on her way home. They weren’t keen, but luckily we’d a tip-off they were selling illegal diesel, so they caved in, in the end. You can see Cathy on it, getting into a car. So we ran the number and got a hit.’
‘Could I have a look at the footage?’
He hesitated and then shrugged. ‘If you want.’ He indicated she should follow him down the grey-carpeted hallway, lit by small bulletproof windows. ‘Anyway, the plate belonged to Cathy’s neighbour. Odd fella, lives by himself.’
‘Hmm. Well, let’s
keep an open mind.’
Gerard shot her an irritated look, but said nothing except: ‘I’ll show you the footage.’
He’d led her into the main control room in the new station, and the noise and hubbub made her blink. It hadn’t been so full the other night. Officers sat at new high-tech desks, with built-in phones and monitors; everywhere was the noise of voices and buzz of electronics. ‘It’s a bit fancier than our place, isn’t it?’
‘All style and no bloody substance. See those terminals, right? They’re rented off the company who built the place. You plug in so much as a mobile phone to charge, and you’ve gone over your limit – costs a fortune. They even took the kitchens out so we had to get our coffee in the canteen. Two fucking pounds a go. Sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ She found his anger strangely appealing, a sort of raw energy source.
‘Anyway, look at that. I need to get on.’
He sat her at a desk, in an arched metal chair, and pressed his mouse. As he leaned over her she could smell his aftershave, his eagerness to get on and nail this case. She tapped the screen. ‘That’s Cathy?’
‘Tech reckon so.’ On the fuzzy CCTV footage, a figure in a maroon uniform could be seen passing the garage forecourt. Dark hair, around Cathy’s height. As Paula watched, a blue hatchback car drew up at the kerb, and after a short chat through the window, the figure got into it. Paula squinted. There was a bag, definitely, but she couldn’t make out what type of shoes the girl had on. ‘What car does the neighbour drive?’
Gerard snapped off the footage. ‘Kia Picanto, gunmetal blue. That’s—’
‘Yeah, I know what it is, thanks.’
‘All
right, all right.’ He said something under his breath. ‘Suppose you want to watch the interview. Come on then.’
As they got up, a woman was clacking across the floor. Dressed in a smart black business suit, she was around forty, fair hair tucked up in a neat bun. She stopped her progress sharply and stared at them. ‘DC Monaghan. Is this the famous Dr Maguire, then?’
Gerard was suddenly standing straighter. ‘It is. This is—’
The woman held out her hand. Her nails were polished ovals, and Paula wanted to hide her own bitten ones. ‘DCI Helen Corry. I run Serious Crime up here. We’re in a bit of a state, what with Inspector Brooking taking all our constables.’
‘I thought you were—’
‘Yes, I’m back off leave now, so I’ll be taking over the murder case. How are things on the other missing girl? You’re hanging on to that one. For now.’
Paula answered cautiously, thrown. ‘Well – we’re working on it.’
‘Hmm. Tell Brooking we do have a few other deaths and the like to solve up here. And the travelling community isn’t very happy about all the scrutiny he’s sending their way. We’ll have trouble on our hands, I’d bet.’
It was impossible to tell if she was joking or not. Paula felt the woman’s keen scrutiny, and saw that even angry Gerard was discomfited by her presence. Then Corry smiled, unexpectedly. ‘I’ll let you go then. I could use you up here sometime, Dr Maguire, if you ever get bored.’
‘Er – OK. Thanks.’
Not much chance of that, she thought.
The Carr’s neighbour, Ken Crawford, was the sort of man who had sweated all through his workshirt every day by lunchtime. He was in his late fifties, Paula judged, and had an unhealthy corned-beef complexion. She watched him through the two-way mirror.
‘State your
name and occupation for the tape.’ Gerard favoured the ‘bad cop’ approach, clearly.
‘You never said what it’s about?’ The man was sweating.
‘Your name, please.’
‘Eh, it’s Ken, Kenneth Raymond Crawford. I work in the bank.’ He mopped his head with the sleeve of his shirt, pespiration glistening in his greying walrus moustache. ‘This is about wee Cathy, is that it?’
‘Since you bring it up, Mr Crawford, tell me how you knew Cathy.’
‘I’ve lived over the fence from her all her life, God rest her.’
‘How often did you see her?’
He looked bewildered. ‘Well, I saw her every day, heading off to school, that big ould bag on her shoulder.’
‘Did you see her the day she disappeared? Last Friday, that was.’
The man shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t know, rightly. I see her most days, so I do.’
Gerard said, ‘Mr Crawford. We’ve got you on the traffic cam leaving the bank at three. Any reason for that? You normally work till six, don’t you?’
‘Aye, aye – I took an early day, so I did.’
‘Why?’
He was sweating even more. ‘Eh – I’d a friend coming to visit. I wanted to get the house ready.’
‘Mr Crawford?’ Gerard leaned in. The man wiped his brow with a sleeve. ‘Mr Crawford, are you listening?’
‘Aye, sorry, son.’ He took a shaky breath. ‘It’s just – I don’t know what this is about.’
‘You saw her, didn’t you? That day?’
His face screwed up. ‘I – I see her most days . . .’
‘What time did you see her?’ Gerard’s voice was a growl.
‘After
school,’ the man said reluctantly. ‘Just saw her after school, like. Seeing as I was back early . . . you know.’
‘You saw her in the street where you live? Or before that?’
Paula saw the fear on the man’s face, now swimming in sweat. Gerard insisted. ‘Did you pick her up, Ken?’
He started. ‘I – no. I never.’
‘We’ve got you on CCTV.’ Gerard had his arms folded, staring up into the corner of the room. ‘When you passed the garage forecourt, you picked up a passenger.’
Ken Crawford’s eyes darted round, the wall, the floor, the window where Paula was watching, though he couldn’t know it. No escape.
Gerard said quietly, ‘Did you give her a lift home, Ken? We’ve got your car, you know. We’ll be able to tell if she was in it.’
He started to talk all in a rush. ‘I just seen her walking up the road, and it’s a long way up that ould hill, what’s the harm in giving the child a run up the road, I swear to God, I just gave her a lift, she was right as rain when I left her—’
Gerard slammed his hand down on the table and the man jumped, silenced. ‘
What did you do to her?
’
‘I dropped her off in the street.’ Ken Crawford was gasping for air. ‘She asked me to let her out at the end of the road. I thought – maybe she’d be ashamed to be seen with an ould codger like me, so I let her out and I went on home, no harm done. She’d her phone with her in her hand, so maybe she wanted to ring someone, like.’
‘Cathy never got home, as you know fine well. Isn’t that right?’
The man was staring at the table, as if puzzling out some fiendish crossword.
‘Mr Crawford? Do you understand what I’m asking you?’
‘Aye, sorry. I
just can’t fathom it, son. Where else could she have gone? I left her at the end of our street. Just gave her a lift ’cos I saw her walking, like. Normally I’d never be home that early, but . . . you know.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us you’d seen her? You must have known we were looking for information, but she was actually
in your car
and you never said. Why wouldn’t you tell us something like that, Ken?’
The man opened his mouth, like a drowning fish, but nothing came out.
Gerard spoke almost gently. ‘You left her at the end of the road.’
‘Yes. On the main road, like, just before our street. She said, “Would you let me out here, Mr Crawford”, so I did. I did.’
‘And Majella?’ Gerard asked casually.
‘Who?’
‘Majella Ward. She went missing four weeks ago. What do you know about her, Ken? Did you give her a
lift
too?’
The man gaped. ‘I never met the girl in my life. She’s the traveller? I only saw her on the telly. Swear to God. Only Cathy. That’s all.’
Gerard tipped his chair forward with a bang. ‘Wait here, Mr Crawford.’ He stood up calmly, but as soon as he was out he was rigid with excitement. ‘I’m calling Corry.’
Paula was still watching the man through the window – he was shaking with fear. ‘Now, hang on – maybe he did drop her on the street. Is there any CCTV round there?’
‘Ah, for God’s sake. She never got home! He’s lying through his teeth.’
‘But do we know that for sure – that she didn’t get home?’
Gerard gave her a disgusted look. ‘Her mammy and daddy said it, didn’t they?’
‘Yes.’ Paula
looked at the closed door, the fire escape symbol. Something about this just didn’t seem right. It was too easy, the odd-ball neighbour who lived alone, caught on camera giving the girl a lift. Paula thought again about how frightened Angela Carr had seemed.
Gerard was still talking. ‘I’m getting a search warrant. We need to get into his house – there’s bound to be blood traces – and look at the age of him; he’d be in the frame for 1985 too, if we can link them.’
‘Wait. Did anyone talk to Cathy’s siblings yet?’
He was already walking off and wheeled round on his heel. ‘What? Why?’
‘Just to check if she really didn’t come home that day.’
But he was
gone, shaking his head in irritation. Nobody seriously thought to doubt the word of Cathy’s grieving parents. Because what kind of person would do that?
Half of Ballyterrin seemed to have turned out for Cathy Carr’s funeral, on a chill grey afternoon the following day. The rain fell in shards, piercing through to the skin with damp. Under the lowering skies, a stream of girls in maroon walked behind the coffin, keening, clutching each other. Almost like professional mourners from days gone by, bringing all the grief a teenage girl can muster. Before them marched Cathy’s many uncles, aunts, and cousins.
‘God, it’s endless.’ Paula and Guy were shivering in his car by the side of the road by the church, waiting for the cortège to reach them.
‘Eamonn Carr’s the eldest of eight kids,’ she told him, clearing a patch of the misted-up window. ‘And they’ve all gone forth and multiplied.’
‘Like good Catholics.’
‘Mmm. There was nothing in the file about the mother though, Angela Carr.’ As she said it, the family themselves came into view getting out of the hearse, the parents with the four remaining children strung out like pearls between them. The older brother and sister had faces cold and frozen; the younger two were stumbling along, crying but probably not understanding how their sister Cathy could be in that box, in that car, in the sea of flowers. Angela Carr wore a smart black coat and hat, and was moving forward with jerky, robotic steps. ‘She’s an orphan from Dublin, apparently. I wonder how they met.’
Inside the
hearse, someone had spelled out Cathy’s name in chrysanthemums. It was the usual bloom of choice for floral funeral lettering, and made Paula shiver even more as she thought of other burials she’d seen.
‘Jamie’s was the same,’ said Guy, as if reading her mind. ‘When a kid’s murdered, it’s always a huge turnout.’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t really know what to say to Guy about his dead son. For the first time she was having some understanding of all those people who’d ignored her for years after her mother—sometimes, you just hadn’t the words. And it was his child. How could you even carry on?
‘Let’s go.’ The crowd was thinning, finally, so Guy undid his belt. They were about to get out when a bang on the window made Paula jump out of her skin. ‘Jesus!’