The Lost (5 page)

‘Yes.’ Angela Carr
looked out of the window.

‘I was, too. It’s a good school. And Cathy was last seen leaving there, is that right? Her friend saw her walking away from the gates, at hometime?’ It had been a Friday, when everything changed. Only a week before.

Angela frowned. ‘I never liked that Anne-Marie. A bad influence, hanging out with boys down the town. Cathy’s a good girl – she’s never been any trouble.’

‘But you’ve said you think she might have run away?’

Angela’s face convulsed. ‘I— maybe. She might have.’

‘Here we go.’ Eamonn Carr was coming in with tea on a tray, and what looked like home-made biscuits. Paula took her drink gratefully, but saw that Guy just sipped his and put it down on a well-placed coaster.

She leaned forward. ‘Can I ask – is there a reason you think she could have run away?’ This was strange. Most families were convinced something awful had happened to their loved one, sure they would never leave of their own accord; although as Paula’s research showed, most did.

‘You know girls,’ Eamonn Carr said. He sat down beside his wife and took her limp hand. ‘She might have fallen out with one of her pals.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sure you’ve been asked these questions already, but I just need to run through them again, if that’s OK. Did she take anything with her, any clothes or money?’

Eamonn glanced at his wife, who was staring at the floor. ‘We weren’t sure. She could have bought her own clothes, couldn’t she? I mean, what do we really know about what they get up to?’

Paula made herself look him in the eyes. His dark hair was swept back, and his eyes were dark too, unreadable behind heavy shadows. Cathy’s eyes were green, the file said. Did that come from the mother? She couldn’t see Angela’s face. ‘Did you give her much pocket-money?’

Eamonn shook his
head, his eyes on Angela.

‘Was she having trouble at school? Bullying or anything like that?’

She noticed he looked at his wife again before answering. His voice was forced. ‘Cathy’s very popular, isn’t she, love? Always the centre of attention.’

‘Maybe – a boyfriend, even?’

Angela Carr sat stiffly forward and finally spoke, in a high, almost childish voice. ‘Cathy didn’t have boyfriends. She was a good girl, far too young for all that carry-on.’

Cathy Carr was fifteen, old enough in most people’s book to at least be interested in boys. ‘Yes, I’m sure she is. It’s just there’s often an emotional reason for going missing – some kind of pressure . . .’

‘She would never do anything dirty.’

‘I’m sure, but—’

Guy caught her eye and Paula fell silent as he took them through Cathy’s last movements, her day at school, who her friends were, and her state of mind over the previous few weeks.

‘Normal,’ said her father, rubbing his hands over his face. He looked exhausted. ‘She’s been studying for her GCSEs. She’s very driven.’

‘She’s a good girl,’ said her mother again. ‘Works hard and then she’s busy with after-school classes.’

‘Tell me about them.’

Her father looked blank, but Mrs Carr reeled off: judo, choir, first aid, volunteering. ‘And she does church youth group, of course. Never misses Mass.’

‘And you, Mrs Carr, do you work?’ Paula was sure she didn’t, but asked anyway.

Angela Carr’s eyes wandered to the window again. Her husband squeezed her hand. ‘Angie’s job is with the wee ones. She’s a Eucharistic minister too, and she does the church flowers and collects for the handicapped children.’

‘And Mr Carr, what
time do you typically get home?’

‘Me?’ He looked surprised. ‘Maybe eight, nine. Why?’

‘Oh, it’s just girls are often closer to their dads at that age.’ She smiled. So Eamonn Carr probably never saw his daughter.

He was frowning. ‘You don’t think it’s something to do with my work on the council, do you – something political?’

Paula glanced at Guy. ‘Statistically, the most likely thing is she’s run away. I’m trying to work out why that might have been. Did you come home late that day?’

Eamonn cleared his throat. ‘Angie rang me when Cathy didn’t come back, and I went straight home. Five o’clock. Then I drove round the streets to see could I find her.’

‘OK. Just one last thing – does Cathy have her own computer?’

‘No, indeed. Load of filth on that internet.’ Angela Carr looked disgusted. ‘She’s no phone, either. No need for it. It’s crazy what some of these young ones have nowadays.’

‘I see. Did she keep a diary?’

Angela frowned. ‘No. Cathy had no secrets. Why would she?’

‘Her room’s been searched,’ said Guy quietly. ‘There were no diaries, nothing like that.’

‘See? She was a good girl.’ Angela’s eyes flicked between them.

‘And I suppose she had her schoolbag with her when—Well, that’s OK. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look at her bedroom before we head off. Thank you, Mr Carr, Mrs Carr. Sorry to take up your time.’ Paula stood up. ‘Lovely biscuits, by the way.’

Eamonn Carr smiled distractedly. ‘Oh yes, Angie’s a great cook.’

The woman did not
smile. Her gaze swept over to the blank TV screen, and Paula saw that her thin fingers were twisting pleats into the fringed edge of the sofa.

A quick glance in Cathy’s bedroom was as expected. Painfully neat, like the rest of the house, the pink duvet pulled tight over the single bed. The only pictures were framed shots of dogs and kittens. No posters, no stickers, no mess. A brush sat on the scalloped dressing-table, long dark hairs caught in the bristles. That had been the only trace the girl was ever there.

Outside, Paula felt she had to breathe deeply. Guy held the car door for her.

‘Your thoughts?’

‘God, where do I start?’ Paula ticked off on her fingers. ‘One, she used the past tense twice, talking about Cathy.’

‘Mm, I noticed that.’

‘Two, who the hell makes biscuits when their daughter’s missing? And watches
Cash in the Attic
?’

‘People deal with grief in different ways.’ He started the engine.

‘Of course, but there’s usually a pattern. And in Ireland, there’s a lot of judgement. You’d never watch TV when someone was dead and not buried, for example. And also – they’ve redecorated that house recently. Have you had Forensics in?’

He was frowning. ‘Cathy disappeared on her way home from school. She never reached the house.’

‘Maybe.’

He was quiet for a while. ‘I can see you know what you’re talking about, Paula. But you don’t – forgive me – you don’t have children, do you? Maybe we need to let people cope however they know best, without jumping to conclusions.’

Paula opened her mouth and shut it again. ‘Fine. But you could still check the house out.’ She might not have children, but she did know about loss. Far more than she’d ever wanted to, in fact. ‘Inspector?’

‘Oh, call me
Guy. We’re such a small team.’

‘OK. You don’t have to take the tea, you know. You don’t drink it, do you?’

He looked surprised, then laughed. ‘Can’t stand the stuff, but I take it to ease them in. You’re good, aren’t you.’

Chapter Five

The next stop for Paula
and Guy was St Bridget’s Grammar School – the girls-only convent that sat high on the hill over the town. ‘This is your old school, I gather?’ Guy looked over again. His fair hair had recently been cut at the back, revealing a pale line along the neck.

‘That’s right. Wore the maroon outfit for seven years. It’s hideous.’

‘I know, my daughter’s there.’

That was surprising. ‘But you’re not Catholic?’

‘No – but we couldn’t find a secular school that was any good.’

That made sense. The religious orders still had the school system pretty much sewn up in Northern Ireland. ‘You brought your whole family over?’

‘More or less.’ A look crossed his face. ‘Katie transferred to St Bridget’s when I took the job. In London you’d pay a fortune for that kind of education.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Fifteen.’ He flicked the indicator to turn into the drive.

‘So she’s in the same year as—’

‘She doesn’t know Cathy, they’re in different classes. Katie’s not been here long enough.’

She risked, ‘And what does your wife make of Ballyterrin?’

He was silent for a while as he manoeuvred into the teachers’ car park. ‘Well, Tess has gone back to London for a while. She – there were a few things to sort out.’

Did that mean they were
separated? Paula wished it wasn’t so rude to ask.

He turned off the engine. ‘We’re meeting with the Principal now. She’s called Sister Attracta, can you believe it?’

She undid her belt. ‘When it comes to nuns, that’s the least of your worries. Well, here we go. I feel like I should be in uniform again.’

It was a small joke, but when she said it she had the feeling he was picturing her as a schoolgirl. She turned away abruptly as a faint blush spread over his fair skin. ‘Let’s go then.’

Entering her old school foyer was like stepping back in time. Paula felt an urge to roll down her socks and undo the top buttons of her shirt. Girls seemed to appear from every door and window, aware by some strange telepathy that a man had entered the premises. The air was heavy with Impulse and mild hysteria. It was strange, she thought, watching Guy’s strong back go up the stairs. At that age she’d have considered him desperately old – someone’s dad. But at some point, everything had changed.

The Principal’s office was also the same, that smell of dust and glue. Paula swallowed down her memories of being summoned there when they found the first body – the way her knees had wobbled as she walked down the corridor, trying to put one foot in front of the other, until she had to hold onto the wall to stay up. But that was then. It had been Sister Magdalena in Paula’s day, a dragon in a wimple. She blinked and saw a different nun coming to let them in.

Sister Attracta had a soft Southern accent. ‘Good morning, Inspector.’ With such a shortage of nuns, the Order often sent them round the country.

‘Sister.’ His tone was respectful. ‘This is Ms Maguire, a former pupil.’

‘Yes, 1992 to 1999, wasn’t it.’ The nun’s hand was cool and soft. So she’d checked – that must mean she knew all of it. ‘You did very well here, Paula,’ she smiled, and Paula gulped. They could read minds! Under the brown veil, the nun was younger than she’d thought.

‘I’m afraid we’ve
nothing more to say about Cathy.’ The Sister folded her hands. ‘A popular girl, and clever – although lately, her work had gone off a wee bit. Nothing to worry about.’

‘No trouble?’ Paula sat down on a hard school chair.

‘One of the teachers, Miss Kenny, she told me she saw Cathy crying in the cloakroom last week – but then she is fifteen. The girls, they’re so sensitive to everything; any criticism, a row with a friend – they take it all to heart.’

‘Boys?’

The nun smiled. ‘Ah, I’m sure you know the way of it, Miss Maguire. Most of them are crazy over boys. You’ll maybe want to ask her friends again, but as far as we know there was no actual boyfriend in the picture.’

‘How are the girls taking it?’ Guy leaned in.

‘You’d know as well as we do.’ She fixed him with her brown eyes. ‘Katie seemed quite upset about it. Is she all right?’

He frowned. ‘She doesn’t really know Cathy, she said.’

‘But in these situations, the atmosphere spreads very quickly. There’s been a lot of tears. And coming after the poor child in the summer . . .’

Paula flicked a glance at Guy. ‘Another missing girl?’

‘No, no.’ The nun shook her head. ‘Very sad. She died – well, the coroner said he wasn’t sure, but it looked as if she’d taken her life, God rest her. Louise McCourt was the name. She was sixteen, the year above Cathy. These things, they don’t happen in Ballyterrin. At least we thought they didn’t.’

Guy had been staring at his feet and now stood up abruptly. ‘We ought to go, Sister. Thank you. Ms Maguire will talk to Cathy’s friends, if she may.’

‘Certainly, it’s all
set up in the Chapel. I thought you might like to see Miss Kenny first though – she’s Cathy’s form teacher. You’ll find her downstairs.’

Outside, Paula looked at Guy curiously. ‘Everything all right?’

‘It gets to you, when you have a child,’ he said shortly.

‘Did you look into the suicide?’

‘It wasn’t ruled a suicide.’

‘Hmm. You said there was a suicide in 1985, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but that’s all it was. No connection.’

‘But there could be a link—’

‘The girls didn’t know each other, Paula. None of them did. What kind of link could it be?’

‘Well. I don’t know.’ Paula fell silent, her mind churning through all this information.

As they walked downstairs, Guy stiffened. ‘Katie!’

Across the main lobby, Paula saw a teenage girl, hunched and scowling, walking in the same direction as them. The girl looked away as if she was going to pretend not to hear.

‘Katie, it’s Dad!’

Paula winced for the girl as she slunk over. ‘Da-ad, stop coming here, it’s so embarrassing.’

‘I have to, it’s my job. Have you got your lunch? I made it last night.’

‘Ye-ah.’ Katie Brooking was as dark as her father was fair, with thick curly hair pulled back in a plait. She must take after her mother.

‘This is Ms Maguire, she’s helping us look for Cathy. Where are you going anyway? Isn’t this classtime?’

‘Nowhere. Just the toilet.’ Though she had her schoolbag with her, fiddling with its strap on her shoulder.

‘Well, see you
at home.’

The girl said nothing, just swept Paula with dark suspicious eyes. Paula did an awkward adult smile.

‘That’s my daughter,’ Guy said needlessly, as Katie stalked off in the opposite direction from where she’d been going. Paula wondered again what had happened to his wife, and why he still hadn’t mentioned the other child in the desktop photograph.

‘Come in! Come on in! Welcome to the English room.’

Sarah Kenny was one of those people who shake your hand with both of theirs, a clammy grasp that says,
I have never been more pleased to meet anyone in my life.
Her fair curls were escaping from the headband she’d placed on them, and though she couldn’t have been far into her thirties, her pale Irish skin was already lined and freckled. ‘Ms Maguire, isn’t it? An old pupil!’