Controlled Explosions (8 page)

‘It’s just the heat – the sun …’ It wasn’t especially warm – it never was in Ireland, of course – but her body seemed to produce its own waves of heat now.

‘Sit down.’ Aidan led her inside to the incense-scented dark. She slipped off her tight lilac shoes and the stone floor was cool under her feet.

‘Thanks. I’m OK.’

Aidan sat beside her in a pew, leaning forward so his tie flopped between his knees. ‘Weird day.’

‘It is that.’

He looked at her, and the old ache came back. ‘Are you feeling well? I mean in general.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m like a beached whale. Still, won’t be long now.’

Aidan said, ‘We need to talk. I know that. I’ve been meaning to see you.’

‘I’ve been here.’

‘I just couldn’t … you know, after you told me it was either me or him. Christ, it was such a shock. It was like you’d done it on purpose almost. To punish me.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. I got pregnant and I’m the size of a cow just so I could make you feel bad. You’re totally right.’

He made a noise of annoyance. ‘I know, OK? It was just a lot to take in. And him – you see him every day, like, you must be close.’

She tried to explain. ‘He’s my boss. He – well, it’s complicated too. It’s not as if we’re—’ With spectacular bad timing, that was when her phone went, trilling in the depths of the (also lilac) clutch bag Pat had forced on her. ‘Oh, sorry. I better get this.’ It echoed in the silent church. She pressed the green button. ‘Hello?’

‘Paula?’

Her heart sank at his voice. She could see Aidan had recognised the name which flashed up; he was once again scowling intently ahead.

‘What’s up?’

‘I know you have the wedding today, and I wouldn’t bother you if I could help it, but—’

‘Something’s happened?’

‘There’s a body. I thought you’d be annoyed if I didn’t tell you.’

‘Is it one of them?’

‘We think so, but—’

‘Where?’

‘Creggan forest. But listen, Paula, don’t—’

‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

‘No, Paula, that’s not what I—’

She ended the call. The menu of Poached Salmon, Roast Beef with Julienne Vegetables, and Summer Fruits Pavlova would have to wait, and after the day she’d had she was almost weepingly grateful for the certainty of human flesh, a crime scene to analyse, a case to solve.

Aidan spoke bitterly, still not looking at her. ‘You’re going then.’

‘I have to. It’s one of the Mayday Five, we think.’

She offered it as a small sop – Aidan, editor of the local paper, knew the significance of the case more than anyone. But he didn’t budge. ‘If you think that’s more important than today.’

‘I don’t. I’ll be an hour, tops – anyway, they’ll be snapping photos for ages yet.’ He wouldn’t move to let her out, so she clambered awkwardly over him. ‘
Aidan
.’

‘Oh, it’s OK. Go to him. Don’t mind me.’

She bit down the enraged retort that he’d ignored her for the best part of four months. ‘Where’s your car?’ she demanded.

‘You’re not really going to feck off during a wedding?’ But he sighed and slapped the keys into her hand, on a football key ring Paula knew had to have been a present from Pat. Unless someone was getting done on corruption charges, Aidan had zero interest in sport.

‘See you later. Look, I’m sorry – try to understand?’

‘You’ve made your choice,’ he muttered. She pretended not to hear. Then she ran down the aisle in her bare feet, shoes in one hand, bag and wilted flowers in the other, her lilac dress rustling around the folds of her unwieldy body.

Soon she was heading out of town, on her way to a small village in the shadow of the Mourne Mountains. Stone houses, Lego-green fields, the sea opaque with light. As she drove she felt her shoulders, crunched up all the way through the ceremony, gradually relax.

Her father was married. To Aidan’s mother. Even when he’d told her about it months back – told her he planned to have her mother finally declared dead so he could marry Pat – it somehow hadn’t sunk in until now, seeing them before the altar. Everyone else was moving on, and after seventeen years you couldn’t blame them. So why could Paula not give up? Why did she have her mother’s case file in her desk at home, full of questions and blind alleys and no answers at all, after all this time?

The car park near the forest was full of police cars and vans. Paula was beginning to realise her bridesmaid’s dress was not the most practical of garments for a crime scene. No matter. She wasn’t going to miss this.

She parked and staggered up to the police cordon on the path leading into the forest. DC Gerard Monaghan, an ambitious Catholic recruit in his twenties, was on his mobile nearby, and burst out laughing when he saw her. ‘Jesus, Maguire. Are you lost on your way to a formal?’

She was panting already, slick with sweat under the man-made fibres. ‘You found something.’

‘A walker phoned in a body in the trees. Some local uniform was first on scene.’

‘And how did we get in on it, if he’s dead?’ They were walking, so she tried to tuck up the hem of her dress.

‘Well, Corry and Brooking are on bestest terms right now.’

‘Hmm.’ Paula wasn’t sure how she felt about this rapprochement between DCI Helen Corry, head of Serious Crime at the regular PSNI in the area, and DI Guy Brooking, their boss at the missing persons unit, seconded in from London. At first the two had thoroughly trampled on each other’s toes, but lately Corry had been nice as pie about sharing jurisdiction. Paula wasn’t sure why.

But none of that mattered right now. ‘Is it definitely one of the Five? Which one?’

‘I doubt they can tell.’ He was leading her to the cordon and nodding to the uniformed officer at the tape. ‘Here’s Cinderella, late for the ball.’ She glared at him and he laughed. ‘She’s with us, pal. Dr Maguire, forensic psychologist.’

The officer eyed her sweaty face and bulging belly, but let them pass.

‘Why can’t they tell?’ Paula asked, as they trotted up the forest path. Dappled sunlight fell on them, and a warm pine scent filled the air. She knew that Gerard, six foot four in his socks, was shortening his stride for her, but even so she felt dizzy with the effort. Around them was the silence of the forest, small clicks of insects and leaves rustling.

‘You’ll see,’ said Gerard. ‘It’s a grim one. You don’t have to be here, you know.’

‘I do. I can’t get a sense of it otherwise.’

‘All right.’ Gerard gave an on-your-head-be-it eye roll and directed her down a small side path. She lifted her skirt to step over roots, her flimsy shoes already in flitters. This was stupid. This was, in a competitive field, one of the more stupid things she’d ever done.

Trees parted to reveal a small gap in the woods, and a cluster of CSIs and detectives surrounding something she couldn’t quite see. Corry and Brooking had their heads together, looking at a piece of paper.

‘Look who turned up,’ said Gerard cheerfully.

Helen Corry was the type of woman who, whatever they had on, you looked at it and realised –
that’s exactly what I should have worn
. Her short-sleeved white shirt and grey trousers were cool and fresh. She wore gloves, and a stern expression. ‘So I see. Being seven months’ pregnant can’t detain you from crime scenes, Dr Maguire?’

‘Or being at your father’s wedding?’ added Guy.

Paula sighed. They were awful united, much worse than any of their disagreements. It was like being looked after by an extra set of cool, young parents. ‘Who is it?’

Corry peeled off her gloves. ‘We think it’s Mickey Doyle. Hard to tell from the face, but we’ll know soon enough.’

‘So they didn’t leave the country then, the five of them? Do we think they were kidnapped?’

‘Should you really be here, Paula?’ Ignoring her question, Guy moved towards her. He too looked cool in a blue shirt and red tie, his fair hair brushed back from a stiffly controlled face. ‘I mean, the baby—’

‘The baby’s fine.’ She pushed forward, irritated. ‘Let me see him.’

Then she did.

Hanging victims all had a look in common. Eyes popping, tongue protruding, face red and livid. That would be why they couldn’t identify him yet. Also common was the loosening of the bowels, which Paula could now smell on the fresh pine breeze. She’d seen it lots of times, so it was strange and very bad timing that this particular victim should cause her to black out suddenly, the forest floor swimming up to meet her.

‘I told you.’ Guy had caught her before she fell. ‘Look, you’re not up to this. Sit down.’ He marched her to a tree stump. ‘I’ll get you some water.’

Paula acquiesced, breathing and blinking hard. His expression, she realised, was exactly the same one Aidan had adopted towards her, stoical and distant, with just a touch of resentment. Perfectly timed to remind her that, while the pregnancy had granted her a temporary reprieve, as soon as this baby was out, all three of them were going to have to find out which of the two men was the father.

When she woke up, she was covered in blood again. In that second when you’re still mostly asleep, when you’re sure everything you’ve dreamed is true – like when you look in a mirror and can’t recognise your own face – she could only see the blood all over her arms and feel it warm on her skin, going into her mouth even, metallic and hot.

Rose’s blood.

She put on the little light beside her bed. She’d tried to sleep with it on after what happened, but Mammy said she was too big for it, and always came in to turn it off. Mammy and her slept at different times now, as if they couldn’t both be awake at once. She imagined that even now, as she staggered up, heart hammering, Mammy’s eyes would be closing in front of the TV. She’d find her there when she got up for school, the bottle of vodka slumped so low it would be spilling on the carpet.

In the light she could see herself in the mirror. No blood. She’d just been crying in her sleep again, big, spurty tears that drenched her pyjamas. And her arms, it wasn’t blood on them, of course, it was the scars. She was glad about the scars, even though people made comments behind her back –
oh, poor wean, she was the one, you know the sister, blah blah.
She was glad of the scars because it showed she survived.

On her dresser was the photo of Rose and her. Rose was hugging her tight in it, the two of them on a sea wall down on the coast. After that they’d had salty chips and ice creams with flakes in, two each, because Rose said sure why not?

Today was the day. Today it was finally going to happen. She knew she wouldn’t sleep again, so instead she sat cross-legged on the carpet in the dark and wondered when it would start.