The Dead Ground (31 page)

Paula ignored this, though her heart began to race under all the jumpers. ‘Mary was your name though?’ No reaction. Sweat was seeping into her armpits. ‘They blamed you, didn’t they?’

‘I was a child. They asked too much of me. I was just an unpaid skivvy to my aunt. But I didn’t hurt him. I’d never hurt a baby.’

Paula relaxed a fraction. Croft had as good as admitted she was Mary Conaghan; that was progress. ‘Were you close to him? You looked after him.’

‘I had little choice. In anything that happened to me as a child.’

‘But you did take Michael?’

She seemed to think about it for a long time. ‘I did. I hid him for a night only. He was never harmed. You see, I had no other way to escape.’

‘Escape?’

‘I needed out of that house. I needed to get home.’

‘Can you tell me why, Mary? Why did they send you there in the first place?’

She gave a small, tight smile. Impossible to read. ‘These things are in the past, Doctor. The past is a different country and we’re all foreigners. I’m not what I was. None of us are.’

‘I’m not sure I follow, Mrs Croft.’

‘I think you do. This girl Mary you’re speaking of. That isn’t me. I left her behind.’

Paula made a small mark on her pad.
Dissociation
. She saw Magdalena looking and had the urge to cover it with her arm. ‘Tell me about the hospital, then. St John of God’s in Dublin. You were arrested again then, weren’t you?’

Another blink. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘A baby went missing. Out of the labour ward, just like Alek Pachek. Her name was Orla Roberts. Only it didn’t end as well for Orla. She was found two days later on the hospital steps. She’d died. Exposure.’

The woman locked eyes with Paula. ‘That’s very sad. Luckily I was able to help find little Alek before it came to that.’

‘Are you saying you don’t recall this, Mrs Croft? We have a record of arrest for a Mary Conaghan, who was working as a student nurse there.’

She shook her head. ‘These things, they happened to a different person.’

‘I see. Well, the thing is, Mrs Croft, that Mary Conaghan had her fingerprints taken as part of the investigation. It was the second time she’d been arrested over the disappearance of a child. Nothing could be proved – she worked there, so of course her prints would be on the scene – but as it happens they were kept on file. So that was useful for the police on this case.’ Paula couldn’t meet Croft’s eyes, so she pretended to be making notes on her pad, staring at the lines. ‘You may have heard, but Forensics did find one print on Heather Campbell’s body. There wasn’t much else. The person who’s taking these children is very careful. But we did get that.’ She looked up to find Magdalena staring at her. A trickle of fear ran down Paula’s throat.
Focus, focus.
She’d interviewed worse people. ‘The thing is, Mrs Croft, it matches the one on file for Mary Conaghan.’

The woman was very still for a moment, like a statue in a church. Then she blinked again, her eyes cold behind the glasses. ‘Is that the reason I’m here? The fingerprint matches the one you found in Dublin?’

‘Yes. You also knew exactly where to find Alek.’ Paula tried to keep her voice steady.

‘I see. The police doubt that I have visions. Well, not all are blessed with the gift of faith.’ She raised her chin. ‘I’m not that well versed in science, I’m afraid. Fingerprints remain the same all throughout life, is that right, Dr Maguire?’

‘Yes. All through life, and no two are ever the same.’

‘Not even twins, I once heard.’

‘No. Not even identical twins.’

‘So if mine didn’t match the one you have, you’d have nothing against me?’ She held out her hands, thin and pale, like ash branches in the snow.

‘But they do match.’

‘I mean my prints now. These ones in front of me.’

‘Yes, but Mary – Mrs Croft – you must see they will match too. They never change, as we just said.’

She smiled. It was quite terrifying. ‘Nevertheless, stranger things have happened. Why don’t you take them again before we talk more? If they match, I will tell you everything.’

Paula looked helplessly at the window. ‘I – you mean you want to wait until the results are back?’

‘Yes. I’d like my lawyer back too, please.’

There seemed to be no choice. ‘If that’s what you want, Mrs Croft. We’ll talk again later then.’ Paula tried to leave the room confidently, but the trickle of worry had grown into a full flood, and as she looked back through the window Magdalena was staring through, as if she could see Paula, and still smiling serenely.

Getting fingerprints usually took at least several days, but Corry wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity to prove their case, and had already rushed them through the lab. After Croft’s request, she got on the phone and a young female constable was dispatched to take new prints of Magdalena’s thin white fingers, and then, they waited. Could this really be the person who’d hacked into the bodies of two women, ripped out a child as it drew its first breath, drowning in blood? There was such a stillness about Croft. Paula realised with a sinking heart she just couldn’t see it. But if it wasn’t Croft and it wasn’t Melissa Dunne,
who was it?

The tension in the incident room was unbearable. Leaving Croft behind glass with her lawyer, perfectly calm, they sat about waiting. Occasionally a phone would buzz and everyone would jump, but it was clear no work was getting done. Corry paced back and forth in the doorway of her office, occasionally picking up her phone and barking into it. ‘I don’t care how much it bloody costs! Get it done!
Christ
.’

Guy was pretending to go through his emails at a desk, but he kept looking at the door of her office, and at 3.23 p.m. he walked over, shutting it behind him, which in no way stopped the whole office from overhearing their subsequent row. ‘I said we should have got her in sooner. Look at all the time she’s had now to cover her tracks.’

‘Inspector, are you suggesting she’s altered her fingerprints or something equally far-fetched?’

‘No, but she’s clever. She’s known for weeks that we suspect her.’

‘And whose fault is that? You’ve been acting from day one as if she’s guilty. It’s highly unprofessional!’

After this there was a drop in sound, and after some more muffled exchanges, Guy emerged, closing the door with more force than was needed and going back to his desk without looking at anyone. They waited. At 4.03 p.m., Gerard pushed back his chair, balling up the paper he’d been working on. ‘What’s taking them so bloody long? We’ll have to let her go soon if they don’t get their arses in gear.’

Paula looked at the phone again. She had a bad feeling about this. Just then, a trill. Corry darted in, and it seemed she paused for a moment before lifting the receiver. Every eye in the room followed her. ‘Hello, DCI Corry speaking.’ A pause. ‘I see. You’re sure? Thank you.’ She replaced the receiver. She stood at her desk for a moment, then passed a hand over her face before coming out into the main room. ‘Everyone,’ she said. They hung on her words. ‘I’m afraid she was right. The print isn’t hers. We have to let her go.’

Paula realised she was on her feet. ‘But the name was the same! Mary Conaghan, that’s her name, she even told me it was!’

Guy was at her side, gripping her elbow. ‘Leave it.’ He spoke low in her ear.

‘But – she told me! How can it not be her?’ Paula felt tears sting her eyes. People were turning, looking at her.

‘
Paula
. Control yourself.’ His face was set. ‘I was afraid this might happen. I think there’s more to this case than we’ve suspected. You said so yourself – it doesn’t fit, does it? The planning and carefulness, and then that savagery?’

‘So what can we do? What else is there?’ They spoke in hisses, as around them the team sagged into disappointment, low voices murmuring, computers switched back into life, but for what purpose? Their two main leads had petered into nothing, vanished overnight like the melting snow.

Guy whispered, ‘I have an idea.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just something I want to look into. I think you and I need to take a short trip. Are you in?’

Paula passed a hand over her damp face, aching for Heather and her lost baby, and Darcy Williams, and all these other children being chosen by some dark logic, unstoppable. ‘I’m in.’

Chapter Thirty-Two

Tallaghmar, Donegal.

In Irish it meant
the dead ground
, or
the barren ground
, and it was a very literal name – it was amazing to think of anything growing in those bare, rocky fields. The snow had melted in patches, though a bitter wind still blew in off the sea, navy and sullen. Even from up on the headland they could see breakers in the bay, and further out, at the westernmost tip of Europe, the islands, dark and unknowable. Tory. Inisbofin. Names like breaths of harsh wind.

‘Is this the place?’

‘It must be. We’re practically off the map.’

Donegal in the deep mid-winter. This was Guy’s trip idea, their last resort, so to speak. The birthplace of Mary Conaghan, whoever she’d really been. Time to go back to the start. He’d fudged it with Corry and he and Paula had left that morning, driving as far west as you could go before you dropped into the Atlantic, wide and deep and endless. Paula didn’t know what he’d told his wife, and didn’t ask.

They’d long since abandoned Guy’s Sat Nav, were close to abandoning maps too. The address they had was no more than
Ceol na Mara
, Tallaghmar. Music of the Sea, the name of the house meant. Though it wasn’t music she could hear as they rounded the coast, but a restless chomping, a gnawing at the land like some caged animal gradually eating itself free. The only house near the beach looked abandoned, a turf-roofed farm cottage with stone walls and tiny windows like narrowed eyes. There was no driveway, just a dirt track leading to a collection of outhouses.

Guy seemed to sense her reluctance to leave the car. ‘Come on. It’s all right.’

She followed, walking carefully on the cold ground, wishing she could grasp his arm. ‘What if no one’s there?’ The place had no phone, so they hadn’t been able to call ahead even if they’d wanted to.

‘Then we’ll ask around. Go to the local Gardai station, visit the pub.’

She imagined Guy’s cut-glass English vowels amid the turf smoke and suspicious gazes of a Donegal pub. ‘I think maybe we should leave.’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘It’s not like you to get spooked.’

‘No. I just—’ She was afraid, she wanted to say. She’d been afraid from the moment that pregnancy test had turned pink. Despite her best efforts, and wherever she turned now, she had something to lose. ‘Knock, then.’

The door was low and latched. Nobody seemed to have been there for decades. Paula fidgeted nervously from foot to foot, willing the silence to remain unbroken. One second. Two seconds. Three – footsteps, and the door creaked open. A stooped old woman stood before them, in a tweed skirt and heavy coat, a piece of twine wound round it to keep it shut. Her legs were bare and exposed, raw sores marking the shins, and she wore little ankle socks with hiking boots. She stared at them.

From inside, the squawk of chickens. Guy cleared his throat. ‘Good afternoon, madam. We’re from the police – we were looking for any family of Mary Conaghan, who we think lived here once?’

She stared. There were several distinct whiskers on her chin. Paula had the fearful impression of a goblin barring the way.

Guy tried again. ‘Do you know the family, madam?’

The woman looked at Paula and said, ‘
An Sassenach é
?’

Paula froze. ‘
Er – Tá sé. Is mise Éireannach
.’

‘
An bhfuil Gaeilge agat
?’

‘Cúpla focail.’

Guy was looking stunned.

‘She’s an Irish speaker,’ Paula explained. ‘There’s a few older folk about who are still more comfortable in it.’

‘You speak it?’ He was watching her with awe and surprise.

‘A bit. That’s what I told her. She’s surprised to see an Englishman here, I think.’

‘
Sassenach
,’ Guy repeated. ‘Is that derogatory?’

‘Um . . . depends on the context. I don’t remember that much, to be honest. But I was quite good at school.’ She groped for the word ‘police’. ‘
Tá muid
 .
 
. .’ she failed. ‘Mary. Mary Conaghan.
An bhfuil sí anseo
?’

Asking if Mary was there was the best she could do, though clearly Mary wasn’t. She was in Ballyterrin in her mansion built with other people’s money, unless they were very wrong about everything. But the woman understood. ‘Mary.’ The name was rusty in her old throat.

Paula nodded.

‘
Tagaigi isteach.
’ The goblin woman vanished into the gloom, and Paula nudged Guy.

‘She says go in.’

He peered into the interior. ‘It smells like animals.’

‘Yes, well, you wanted to come here. Go on.’

The house seemed entirely preserved from time. White-washed walls, a cracked wooden floor, and scant light from the high, dirty windows. The animal smell came from the chickens which roamed, clucking, and three large black Labs slumped around the open turf fire. Paula noticed a line of large muddy boots by the door – perhaps the woman lived with a son, who looked after her. It was hard to imagine her coping with a farm, she was so tiny and wizened.

She muttered something. ‘What did she say?’ There was only one wooden chair, so Guy stood, almost banging his head on the low ceiling.

‘Tea. She’s offering tea.’

‘Of course she is. Can I say no?’

‘Nope.’ Paula pasted on a smile. ‘She can almost certainly understand you, by the way. It’s not the Amazon. She’s just speaking Irish by preference.
Go raibh mhaith agat
,’ she pronounced, on receiving the tar-like tea in a chipped flowered cup. A packet of Kimberley biscuits added a surreal modern touch. Guy smiled uncertainly, but failed to hide his grimace on tasting the tea.

Paula was struggling to dredge up the distant memories of GCSE Irish, taught by Mr Ó Briain, a rabid Republican with gingery sideburns and a tendency to go off on rants about the Black and Tans. The tea had a distinct farmyard tang, but she drank it anyway, removing a dog hair surreptitiously from her mouth.