Authors: Claire Mcgowan
‘You don’t get on with Ms Cole?’
‘I’ve never met her. But it must have been her fault. They say they can’t help what they are, the gays, but my mother, she loved Daddy before. She could have helped it. She’s always on about choice – well the way I see it she made hers, and it was that kind of life over Daddy and me. Maybe she was making some kind of feminist point, I don’t know. All I know is she left me.’
Guy let that one subside for a moment. ‘So, Mrs Campbell, can you give us any idea where your mother might be, or who she’d go to?’
‘No. She had no friends, just that woman.’
‘You have an aunt, I think?’ he persevered.
‘On her side, you mean? Yes, Auntie Angela. She didn’t talk to Mum, either, but we’re in touch a bit. Facebook, you know. I’ll have to tell her Mum’s missing. She lives in Norwich.’
‘Heather,’ said Guy gently. ‘You realise that if your mother hasn’t gone to a friend or relation, that could mean something has happened to her?’
It seemed to register. ‘What kind of thing?’
‘Well, perhaps she’s been taken ill, or hurt somewhere, or—’ he stopped.
Heather was biting her lip. ‘Those letters. She didn’t tell me, but that – Veronica wrote to me about it. She was scared.’
‘Did you write back?’
‘No.’ Heather grasped at the crucifix she wore around her neck, gold cutting white against red chapped skin. Suddenly she looked up. ‘You know what she did to me, my mother? When I went to see her that day, where she works, she’d put me in the system as an appointment. Just like anyone who goes to her. Like I didn’t even want my baby. Like I hadn’t been trying for three years, and . . . Have you any idea how hurtful that was? Her own grandchild and she just sees it as . . . well. I couldn’t believe she would do that. But that’s her. That’s the kind of person she is.’
Guy broke the awkward silence. ‘Well, we’re already looking for her, so just be on the alert, and do let us know if you hear anything at all.’
‘Can I go?’ Heather was pushing against the table with all her might. ‘I want to go home to Jim.’
‘Of course. Are you OK to drive, because—’
‘Just let me go.’ She pushed out, walking tired and heavy, her shoulders softly heaving. Guy met Paula’s eyes and subtly shook his head; they’d get nothing from her.
‘I’ll see you out, Mrs Campbell.’ He followed her to the corridor and Paula began gathering her things.
‘Tough one?’ She jumped as Gerard opened the door into the room, eating a bag of bacon-flavoured crisps. ‘Not sure we should be hauling in pregnant women for questioning. She looks about ready to pop.’
‘She wanted to come in. Didn’t fancy having your size twelves on her good carpet.’
Gerard harrumphed. But having spent an entire winter with police ripping through her own home, searching for any clues about her mother’s fate, Paula understood Heather’s impulse. ‘Got something?’ She’d seen the piece of paper in Gerard’s greasy hand.
‘I’m telling him first,’ said Gerard stubbornly. ‘Boss?’
‘Yes?’ Guy reappeared in the doorway, back from seeing Heather out.
‘We’ve just found Dr Bates’s car. Other side of the market near the clinic – so she most likely did head to work that day.’
Guy thought about this. ‘But the clinic hadn’t been opened when the receptionist arrived – so something happened to her in between parking and arriving there.’
‘What does that mean?’ Paula asked.
‘We’re going to have to officially declare her missing, I think.’
Chapter Eight
‘Not a bad place she’s got,’ Gerard observed as he powered the police Land Rover down the country lane. It wasn’t strictly necessary to drive an armoured Jeep in these days of peace, but he seemed to like it. He also liked playing Bon Jovi at high volume in the car. It was disconcerting to go to crime scenes with ‘Shot Through the Heart’ ringing in your ears.
It was snowing again, and Paula watched uneasily as the first soft flakes began to settle. ‘She’s loaded, by the sounds of it. Her supporters give her all their dosh – usual story.’ Paula wasn’t at all surprised at the large house they were drawing up beside. Set outside Ballyterrin in the countryside, it was the kind of pillared and posted, overly large mansion that proliferated in the borderlands. The smell of money all about. The countryside around was barren and beautiful, white as bone under the fallen snow, green and wet where it had melted over the day.
Gerard was shaking his head as he manoeuvred the car over a cattle grid towards a paved courtyard at the back of the house, where several other cars were parked. ‘Can’t believe the boss is making us do this. Interview some mad old biddy when we should be finding the doctor?’
‘He’s just trying to keep pace with your other boss.’ Paula undid her seat belt.
At the mention of Helen Corry, Gerard looked wary. ‘You’d be wise not to try and take her on. She’s a tough one.’
‘What’s her story, Corry?’
‘Divorced. Some kids, I think. The guys moan about her – say it’s no wonder her fella left when she’s such a ball-breaker. But she’s good. Expects a lot, but then she gives you a lot back. She’s put me up for the DS exams next year, even though I’m only twenty-eight.’
‘She’s good all right. It’s quite crafty, sending us here, when Croft sees a lot of women who want to get preg—’ Paula stopped. ‘Oh no,’ she groaned, seeing a battered red Clio parked in the courtyard. On the bonnet was perched a dark-haired man in ripped jeans and a grey AC/DC T-shirt. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. Not him.’
Gerard wound down the window and growled at the man. ‘What are you doing here, O’Hara?’
Aidan smiled widely. ‘So you
are
meeting with the faith healer. Now there’s a story.’
Paula got out, slammed her door shut. ‘Let me guess – taxpayers’ money wasted, unemployment levels high, why don’t we close down all public services and make you Pope. I could write these stories for you, Aidan.’
His dark eyes were amused. ‘I’d not be the best Pope, Maguire, as you would know.’
Bloody Aidan. She looked at her feet. Gerard glowered out the window of the car. ‘You shouldn’t be here. You nearly derailed our last investigation with your rag of a paper.’
‘I’m hurt, DC Monaghan. The
Ballyterrin Gazette
is the best paper in town. Well, it’s the only paper, but still.’
Grunting in irritation, Gerard put up the window and turned off the engine. Aidan seemed unmoved by their attitude. ‘What’s up with your man – was he off sick the day of the “good cop” training module or something?’
‘Leave him be. He’s right, you’ve no business being here.’
‘Maybe I wanted to see you. Seems I caught a flash of red hair at the hospital the other day – avoiding me, are you?’
‘If you wanted to talk I’m sure you knew where to find me for the past month, when you’ve not been in touch.’
He frowned; she’d got him. ‘I was busy reopening the paper. You know it’s got new investors – I was busy. And you weren’t well anyway.’
‘Neither were you.’ She felt the ache in her temple where the gun had been pressed, the night she and Aidan had come face to face with a desperate man. They’d got through that ordeal alive – not everyone had – but it had left scars. ‘Tell me this. How’s the arm?’
Wrong-footed, Aidan blinked down at his shoulder, where the bullet wound was barely healed. Snow was settling in his eyelashes. ‘It’s all right. I’m supposed to do physio on it, but it’ll be grand.’
She turned to approach the house. ‘Then I suggest you get in your crappy car and fuck off out of here, or I’ll have Gerard arrest you.’
‘Maguire! You’re so tough these days. What, did you watch too much
Law and Order
when you were off sick?’
‘I mean it. You need to leave right now.’
As she walked off she could hear Aidan’s laughter in her ears. She forced herself not to look.
The door of the large white mansion was opened by a priest. That was a surprise. Paula’s mind went blank.
Gerard stepped forward. ‘Morning, Father. Is Mrs Croft in, please? We’re from the MPRU.’ He flashed his ID. Paula remembered and righted herself – this was the psychic’s ‘spiritual adviser’, Father Brendan, a Catholic priest she’d convinced of her visions.
The priest was middle-aged, his head pink and bald as a baby’s, small glasses slipping down his nose. ‘Could you give your feet a wee wipe there,’ he said, fussily moving the doormat. ‘All that snow’s so dirty when it melts.’
The house was expensively furnished – mahogany chairs, large ceramic vases – but with no sign of being lived in. There was an echoing feel, and a smell of new plaster. Rooms stretched off on either side of the corridor they walked down, and Paula had the impression of a large building around her. She knew people came to stay sometimes, trying to get cured of terminal illnesses, and often conveniently leaving all their money to Mrs Croft when it didn’t work.
‘She’s praying,’ the priest whispered, as he opened the door to the sitting room. ‘Don’t disturb her.’
‘You’d think she’d have been able to predict we were coming,’ Paula muttered, once he was out of earshot. The woman in question was sitting forward on a blue-and-cream striped sofa, hands on her knees, lips muttering. She wasn’t what Paula had expected at all. She couldn’t have said what she
had
expected, but not a woman in her early fifties with grey hair plaited round her head, glasses on a jewelled string, and dressed in an acrylic jumper and slacks. She looked like somebody’s auntie.
The door creaked as Gerard and Paula went in, and Magdalena Croft’s eyes opened. She gave a little yawn, as if waking from a refreshing nap. ‘The police?’
‘The MPRU.’ Gerard dipped his head respectfully. ‘Ma’am.’
She put the glasses on and peered at them. ‘You’re very young, both of you.’
What to say to that? Sorry? Thanks? Paula sat down, struggling to get any purchase on the slippery cushions of the sofa. ‘DCI Corry sent us to have a word with you, Mrs Croft, to see if you can help us find Alek Pachek.’
‘Do you believe I can?’ A direct stare.
‘Erm – I don’t know.’ Gerard shot Paula a look when she confessed this, but the psychic looked pleased.
‘An honest girl. It’s Dr Maguire, is it? Over from England?’
‘Yes. Paula. I grew up in Ballyterrin, though.’
‘And what’s your name, son?’ She smiled at Gerard, who seemed suddenly shy.
‘DC Monaghan.’ He paused. ‘I mean, it’s Gerard. Ma’am.’
‘Well, Gerard, maybe you would pop out there to Father Brendan and ask for tea. I’d like a wee word with your colleague alone. It’s the energy,’ she explained. ‘The Holy Virgin sometimes won’t come to me if there’s men around.’
Gerard took his large frame out, casting curious backwards glances. Paula and the psychic regarded each other. She’d expected to approach this interview as if assessing someone deluded, hallucinating, but now she had the distinct feeling she was being assessed herself. ‘Um – I understand you’re acquainted with Alek’s family, and they asked for you to be brought in.’
‘Poor young people. They came to me when she had trouble falling pregnant.’ She indicated a small end table, which held a box of tissues, a crossword book, and a blue teddy. Paula knew where she’d seen that teddy before – in Alek’s empty crib. The psychic’s hand stroked the toy’s soft ears. ‘It helps if I have something they touched – not much choice for Alek, poor wean.’ Her accent was hard to pin down, veering on different words between Irish and English and possibly American.
‘And can you see anything?’
The psychic seemed amused. ‘Not yet, Dr Maguire. I’m praying. I don’t just ring the Holy Virgin up on the telephone, you know.’
‘What do you do?’ She met the woman’s eyes, framed by the large glasses.
‘I’m often asked this question. I say it’s like standing with your back turned, and when you aren’t expecting it someone comes up behind you and takes you in their arms. When I was a child I heard the Holy Mother speak – she said carry your cross, Magdalena, and go on the roads of Ireland. Bring my grace to everyone you see, and I will give you the gift of healing. And she did. You can talk to any number of people I’ve made well again.’
‘I see.’ Paula tried to keep her face neutral. ‘Do you understand how it works – your gift?’
‘It’s a miracle. I’m not required to understand and neither are you.’
‘Yeah. Mrs Croft – do you keep records of the women you see who want a baby?’
‘Records?’
‘Yes. You see, we think Alek was taken by someone who can’t have their own child, and we wondered if they’d come to you.’
Magdalena smiled; it was strangely chilling. ‘Dr Maguire. If you came to me for help in your darkest hour, would you like to think I’d pass your name on to the police?’
‘No, but we
are
the police, and—’
Suddenly the woman got up and came over to Paula. She was wearing slippers over her tights. She sat down beside her and laid a cool, firm hand on Paula’s forehead and another on her stomach, over the baggy jumper. Her hands felt very heavy. Paula froze against the sofa. Magdalena’s eyes were closed. ‘Yes. You have a very deep heart. Your mother – she’s no longer with you?’
Paula was paralysed under the hand. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’ She tried to hide the quiver in her voice. The whole town knew about Margaret Maguire’s disappearance. It hardly required a psychic gift to recognise who Paula was. The hair was distinctive enough.
‘You know, I could see her, maybe, if I had something of hers, something she touched—’
Paula jerked away. ‘Please.
Stop it.
’
Mrs Croft withdrew. ‘Enough. I can see right into you.’
‘Good for you.’ She was quaking.
‘I don’t think you really want to lose this baby, do you, Paula?’
‘Alek? Of course not, that’s why we’re here. That’s why I’m asking you these questions, so if you could help us and—’
‘Not Alek.’ The woman stood up. ‘I mean the one in your belly.’
A rattle. The door opened, Gerard and the priest coming in with tea on a tray, slopping over on the floral pattern. Magdalena straightened up. ‘We’ll not need the tea after all, Brendan. Our guests won’t be staying. I can’t see anything for wee Alek, not yet. Let’s pray the Virgin comes to me soon.’