Authors: Claire Mcgowan
Chapter Five
‘Inspector Guy Brooking. Yes, Brooking, as in Sir Trevor – oh, never mind. You know me. I’ve been up here pretty much every other day for a year. Can you let us in now?’ Paula could hear the irritation in Guy’s voice as they waited in the reception of the PSNI station. Someone had hung a ‘HAPPY HOLIDAYS’ banner over the desk, which must have seemed a rather grim irony to the criminals and victims who passed by it every day. Lacking security passes for the main station, the staff of the unit always had to wait like any punter off the street, and the desk sergeants seemed remarkably lacking in the most basic facial recognition skills. Finally the security doors were opened and the team trooped into the main part of the station. Avril was carrying her laptop still, as if she needed it by her side at all times. Paula felt tired and empty, her stomach a hollow pit after another quick puking session. She thought she’d managed to cover this one up by running the hand drier as she retched.
The large conference room of the station was lined in fold-up chairs, and at the front a banner bearing the logo of the PSNI hung on the wall above a long table with three microphones on it. The room was filling up with reporters and police staff. A uniformed officer directed them to sit at the back. The chairs were so tight together Guy had to draw his knees right up to his chest. Gerard was at the front, in the crowd of PSNI staff. The mood was controlled and slick, a plasma screen set up beside the table.
‘Smoke and mirrors,’ Paula heard Guy snipe, just before the side door opened and Helen Corry came out in a black suit with a knee-length skirt, flanked by two uniformed officers, a man and a woman.
‘Who’re the uniforms?’ Paula asked Guy under her breath.
He indicated first left, then right. ‘Area Superintendent. Assistant Chief Constable. Big guns.’
Despite the presence of these illustrious names, it was clearly Helen Corry’s show to run. Her face was composed, and when she folded her hands on the table, it showed off her French manicure. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. As you know, we’re in the middle of a major investigation. Yesterday at approximately oh nine hundred hours, an infant was taken from his parents at Ballyterrin General Hospital. Alek Pachek is now one day old. We believe he was taken by a woman posing as a nurse, who then placed him inside a bag and left the premises. He will be weak, and needing his mother’s milk, and he must be kept as warm as possible, especially in this weather.’ She faced the cameras, her face beautifully photogenic. ‘Alek’s mother is Kasia. She is too distraught to be with us today, so I am speaking to you for her, as a police officer and also as a mother myself.’
Beside her, Paula heard Guy mutter something inaudible.
‘Kasia and her husband are desperate to know Alek is safe. They only had a few hours to hold him before he was taken. Alek has a family who love and need him. If you have seen anything, if you know anyone who suddenly seems to have a young baby or is acting suspiciously, please contact us at once. And if that is you on the CCTV film, if you have him – please let us help you. We know you don’t want to hurt him, or cause his family any more grief. Please – bring Alek home.’ She was good, bloody good. Paula could hardly look at Guy, who had his arms folded.
Corry had opened the floor to questions. Someone asked about an offender profile. She said, ‘We are making the best use of all our resources, and our profile suggests a woman who has recently lost a child, or been unable to have her own for some reason. Her partner may not be aware of the loss – she may even have been faking a pregnancy for several months.’ Paula’s own words, coming out of another’s mouth. She wasn’t sure if it was annoying or gratifying.
Another reporter had asked about the possible racism angle, also Gerard’s theory. Corry was in her element answering these, you could tell. ‘It’s sad to say that members of the Polish community here do from time to time experience hate crime and intimidation from a very small minority of the population. At this time we are not treating this as a racial or sectarian incident.’
A fat man stood up, in a check sport jacket. ‘Will the MPRU be involved?’
Beside Paula, Guy tensed. This was a reporter with one of the Belfast papers, which had a strong Republican slant and had printed an article a few months back slating the unit for the ‘sectarian bias’ of the cases they’d recommended for review.
Helen Corry did not even look at the back of the room where the unit staff sat. ‘We’re very grateful to have the advice and resources of the unit, but this is a Serious Crime inquiry, and will be dealt with from this station.’ Her eyes scanned the room. ‘One more question – yes, Mr O’Hara.’
Paula flinched. Bloody hell, she hadn’t seen Aidan come in, but there he was, up near the front, unusually smart in a white shirt, collar open. ‘DCI Corry.’ His voice was clear. ‘Is there any truth in the rumour you’ve called in a psychic to help find Alek?’
Guy turned to Paula, eyes wide with surprise. But if the question was also a shock to Corry, she didn’t let on. ‘As I said, we’ll be using every resource we can access. The family have requested we consult a renowned faith healer, well known in the town – Mrs Magdalena Croft. She has previously worked with other forces and brought some considerable insight to the investigations. Thank you for your question, Mr O’Hara.’
Aidan couldn’t be silenced so easily. From the back Paula could see he’d recently had his black hair cut, and was twisting a pen in one hand, something he did when he wanted a cigarette. ‘You can really justify spending money on that? Aren’t there very strict protocols on UK police forces using psychic intervention?’
At this, Corry smiled. ‘I believe that word is yours, not ours, Mr O’Hara. Not so long ago psychological profiling was also seen as close to voodoo. We’ll take whatever support we can get to bring little Alek home. And you can rest easy about costs – the lady has volunteered her help.’ Aidan sat back, and Paula caught the small smile on his lips. He knew when he was beaten.
The conference wrapped up with an appeal for information and a hotline phone number being given out. Corry pushed back her chair to leave.
Guy stood up as the room cleared. ‘Wait for me. I’m not having this.’
‘Wow! Listen to him shout,’ whispered Avril to Paula. They were waiting for Guy on a line of bolted-down chairs outside Helen Corry’s office, like schoolchildren expecting a telling-off. The noticeboard opposite had health and safety posters, ads for flat shares and car boot sales, reminders to turn off the lights and save energy.
Paula watched the closed door. ‘If it came to a fight, I’d put my money on her.’
‘She always looks beautiful, doesn’t she? I love her clothes.’
‘Mmm. Like a cobra in Louise Kennedy.’ Paula tried to make out the rumble of Guy’s voice.
‘. . . You’re supposed to take our advice and guidance on missing persons cases, so why do I only hear about this faith healer rubbish along with the media? It’s an unacceptable breach of protocol and I’ll be going to the Chief Constable.’
Corry’s voice was calmer, harder to hear. She was saying something about it being a PSNI prerogative to bring in outside help.
‘You’re the one who’s always protesting scarcity of resources, but you’re willing to spend time working with some charlatan?’
There was the sound of a chair being scraped back. Helen Corry spoke loudly. ‘Inspector. This isn’t London. This is a country town. We’re a mile from the border with Ireland, where divorce was only legalised in 1996. Religion is part of daily life.’
‘You think I don’t understand religion? Chief Inspector, I policed Hackney for five years.’
‘So you should know it matters. In gaining trust. Showing respect.’
‘I don’t respect frauds who prey on the vulnerable.’
‘Have a look at that.’ Silence. Paula leaned close to the door, frustrated.
She heard Guy say, ‘That doesn’t prove anything. She made a lucky guess, is all.’
‘The Guards were convinced that child had been abducted by his father, taken back to Bahrain. They’d never be able to find him again, they thought. Then Magdalena Croft said, no, he’s not with his father, he’s in this country, and you’ll find him near water. And there’s his remains on a beach in Galway, exactly as she said. He was two years old and he’d wandered four miles from his home. They’d never have found him without her. He’d be just another stat for your pile.’
Guy said nothing for a while. Then, ‘You can’t believe she really has these visions. The Virgin Mary comes and tells her where to look? I mean, come on.’
‘You’re one hundred per cent sure she doesn’t?’
‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure of anything. Empiricists aren’t.’
‘Well. I don’t know what it is she does or how she sees things, but if she can find me a missing baby I’m certainly going to let her try. And has it not occurred to you that if a woman’s so desperate for a child she steals one, she might have consulted with a faith healer first? Magdalena Croft has supposedly helped more people get pregnant than an IVF specialist.’
More silence. Paula realised she was leaning over so far her ear was almost pressed to the door. She sat back just in time as Guy burst out.
‘Come on, everyone. Let’s go.’
Behind the door, Paula glimpsed the DCI at her desk, just as neat and calm as before. ‘Dr Maguire,’ Corry called. ‘Thank you for your profile. It was very helpful.’
‘That’s OK,’ Paula said, abashed. Guy’s back was receding down the corridor. ‘I have to go.’
‘If you ever get bored, I can always use you here.’ Corry’s nails flashed like little blades. Paula fled.
Down at the unit, all was deserted. Guy, who’d driven back in irritated silence, was further annoyed. ‘Someone should be here at all times. Where the hell’s Fiacra?’
‘Here, boss.’ Fiacra barged through the glass doors, a tray of paper cups in each hand and tinny music emanating from his headphones. ‘Avril texted me about the conference. Thought yous might need coffee – we might be pulling a late one.’
‘Why, did something come in?’ Paula could see Guy debating whether or not to tell him off for going out. He was very fond of coffee and the stuff at the station was vile.
‘Yeah.’ Fiacra licked at the frothy milk cascading from his own cup. ‘This might cheer you up, boss. It’s a potential big case, and they came right to us. So, we have jurisdiction.’
Mollified, Guy lifted the lid from a cup and blew on it. ‘What is it?’
‘A doctor. Never turned up for work and nobody’s seen hide nor hair of her since this morning. I know that’s not long but she was flagged by the system ’cos she’d had death threats. The name’s—’
‘Alison Bates?’ Paula took a sip of her drink – she assumed the only tea was for her – and for a moment enjoyed the look of surprise on her colleagues’ faces. Then she realised – bugger, how could she explain why she’d been visiting the town’s local abortionist?
Chapter Six
‘You’re sure I can’t get you anything else?’ Veronica Cole couldn’t sit still, hopping up and down into the kitchen or to show more photos of herself and Dr Alison Bates in various parts of the world. The small bungalow was crammed with wooden bowls, batik cushions, incense holders. A smell of sandalwood hung in the air. Paula followed the source to a joss stick burning in front of a framed picture of Alison, decades younger but still unsmiling, holding a diploma. Her hair had been darker then, but the eyes behind the glasses were as steely as those in her clinic leaflet photo.
Veronica saw Paula looking at the incense. ‘It’s silly, I know, but I picked up the habit in Indonesia. I’m praying for her.’
‘No different to lighting a candle in church,’ said Paula, trying to be soothing.
The woman was clearly half-mad with anxiety. Tall and bowed, Veronica Cole had long grey hair that she wore loose, dangling silver earrings, and a green tunic top. ‘It’s just not like Ali at all. She’d never worry herself, but she knows I would. Those horrible letters. I know she’d have rung if she could.’
Paula spoke gently. ‘Ms Cole—’
‘It’s Veronica, please.’
‘Veronica, would you like to sit down? We’ll drink the tea and you can tell us what happened.’
They’d said no to tea, but she’d brought some anyway, green leaves in little glass cups. Distracted, she’d also added milk, so bits of leaf floated in it unappetisingly. Guy, who didn’t like tea at the best of times. was prodding at his with a little gold spoon.
Veronica Cole did finally sit, but her eyes kept flitting to the door. ‘I keep thinking she’s going to walk in and say Ronni, you daft article, you forgot I had that conference or something . . . but after the letters, you see—’
‘You did the right thing,’ Guy said, setting his cup down with a tinkle. ‘We take this kind of incident very seriously. Can you tell us about the letters?’
Paula glanced at him. ‘Or maybe – tell us first how you met Dr Bates?’ Calm her, ease her in. Guy nodded, almost imperceptibly. They had their routine all worked out.
‘Well – we met at Queens. You know, the university in Belfast.’ She seemed to be explaining this for the Englishman’s benefit. ‘I was doing Accounting and she was a medical student. We were in the same women’s rights group. The seventies, you know – we were all so right on.’ A sad smile. ‘Ali and I agreed that women’s rights were just as important as religious issues. We were good friends.’ She heard the unasked question. ‘Just friends then. I was – my parents were very devout. I didn’t even know what it meant, myself.’
Paula asked, ‘You’re from Ballyterrin, I take it? And Dr Bates?’
‘Ali was born in Norfolk, but she said she couldn’t wait to leave. She came to university here because I think she wanted to be part of something. Civil Rights. Then after college, she stayed on for medical training. I moved back here to mind Mammy and Daddy. They were getting on a bit, you know how it is. We lost touch for a while, just life really.’
Veronica was babbling, perhaps reluctant to think about what was actually wrong. They saw this quite a lot. Paula shifted; the embroidered cushions were digging into her back. She totally failed to understand the point of cushions – all they did was get in the way. ‘When did you meet again?’