The Nameless Dead (18 page)

‘Worse?’ Jane asked.

‘To be honest, yes,’ I said. ‘No offence.’

The man shrugged as he began sorting through the bags.

‘I told you we were lucky. Our health insurance covered the essential surgery when he was younger, but what he needs now is cosmetic work and they’ll not cover that. We’ll have
to pay for it ourselves but it costs a bomb. We’ll get there, even if it takes a while.’

‘What causes it?’ McCready asked. He had barely spoken since Christopher had arrived and I noticed the tea in front of him remained untouched.

‘No one knows. It’s purely random, doesn’t run in families or that. It just happens.’

‘You’re very accepting of it,’ I said. ‘It’s remarkable.’

‘What choice have I? He’s my son, what am I going to do? I’ve had thirty-five years with it, you know?’

I nodded.

‘So, what does this have to do with the guards?’ Jane asked.

‘We’ve found the remains of several children with Goldenhar syndrome,’ I said. ‘One of them, we think, may have been murdered. I had hoped to identify them. I thought
maybe you might have known other families with children similar to Christopher, maybe from when he was younger?’

She shook her head. ‘Me and him have been on our own since the day he was born. No help, no support, just the two of us.’

‘What about support groups? Your family?’

Jane glanced at Christopher as he put groceries into one of the kitchen units.

‘Son, would you run to the shop for me again? I forgot to get sweetener?’

‘What?’ he said, exasperated. ‘You’re not dieting.’

‘I’ll need to start again,’ she said. ‘Be a love.’

Muttering to himself, he laid down the two cans he held and headed back out again.

‘Do youse want anything?’ he said to McCready and me as he passed.

‘No thanks, Christopher,’ I said.

‘I’m fine,’ McCready managed. ‘Thanks.’

When he had gone, Jane leaned back on the counter. ‘My family have had nothing to do with me since before he was born. I got pregnant when I was 15. My first boyfriend. He was a real rat,
too, but what could you do? I was a shy wee’un – not that you’d think it now. Spotty, like. The first fella that showed any interest in me, well I couldn’t believe it. It
was only afterwards that I realized he was only showing interest in me cause he thought I’d be desperate for it. Never spoke to me again.’

She stared at us openly, as if looking for some reaction, some judgment.

‘What you’d love to tell your fifteen-year-old self, if you could, eh?’

‘What happened?’

‘My old man flipped. What would the priest say? What would the neighbours think? The usual shit. They put me in care. After I had Christopher, when they heard what he looked like, they
wanted nothing to do with him.’

‘I’m sorry to have brought all this up for you,’ I said.

‘He came to the home when Christopher was born and told me they’d let me come back. He said he’d buy me a bike if I left Christopher behind. Let them give him away. I’d
always been at him to get me a Chopper.’

I laughed, remembering my own Chopper.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘A Chopper, for Christ’s sake!’

‘What home were you in?’

‘St Canice’s. They stuck me in there to get rid of me. Then the people in charge must have called him when Christopher was born. It was the only time he visited during the whole time
there. Him and his fucking bike.’

‘What did you do?’ McCready asked, his voice dry. He shrugged. ‘Well, obviously, I know what you did, but . . . were you not tempted?’

‘Of course I was,’ she replied incredulously. ‘I was a wain myself, not stupid. But I went into the room where they kept the babies, in the home, and looked at him lying in his
cot. No one wanted him, no one would ever have adopted him looking the way he did. He’d have been alone in the world. I thought it would have been a shitty thing to do, to leave him like
that. I knew how it felt to not be wanted.’

The room had quietened around us and she faltered as she finished speaking, her tongue clicking dryly in her mouth.

‘So here we are.’

‘Any regrets?’ I asked.

‘Are you kidding? Loads,’ she said, laughing. ‘But, as I say, here we are. So is that any help?’

‘None,’ I admitted. ‘We have no leads on who the children are. I had half-hoped you might have known some families who had children similar to Christopher.’

‘There are no children similar to Christopher,’ she said. ‘Leastways, I’ve never met any.’

We had returned to our car and McCready was starting up the engine when she ran down from the door to speak to us.

‘Look,’ she said, after some hesitation. ‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble, but I think I might know about one of the babies on the island.’

‘The way things are going, Miss Hillen,’ I said, ‘The only person likely to get into trouble over the dig on the island is me.’

She laughed uncertainly. ‘There was another girl who was with me in St Canice’s. Her name was Margot Kennedy. She had her baby about a month after Christopher was born. I met her in
Strabane once, a few years after, and asked how the baby was doing. She said it had been born dead. It hadn’t been right. She’d looked at Christopher when she said it. “He looked
even worse than him,” she’d said.’

‘I appreciate you telling us, Miss Hillen,’ I said. ‘I understand your reluctance.’

‘I don’t want her getting into trouble. The baby died in the home, you know. I guess at that time they might not have had a choice but to bury it on the island. Just, don’t
tell her it was me who gave her name. Especially if . . . you know.’

‘The child we found was a girl, Miss Hillen,’ I said. ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

I phoned through to the station while McCready drove and asked Burgess to run Margot Kennedy through the system for me. We were passing the turn-off for Raphoe when he called
back.

‘I have the details on that woman. Her name’s Hughes now; she lives on the other side of Ballybofey.’

He ran through the details before adding. ‘Your informant was wrong, by the way. Margot Kennedy’s child didn’t die.’

‘What? How do you know?’

‘Max Kennedy was given a PPS number when he was a year old. She must have put him up for adoption, though, for his name now is Max McGrath. He still has the same social-security number,
and a passport, driving license and everything.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Donegal town. 64 Shandon Park.’

I reported all this to McCready after I hung up. ‘We’ll visit Margot Hughes first. If we need to, it’s just a short run onto Donegal town.’

‘Putting the child up for adoption isn’t illegal,’ McCready said. ‘We’d have no reason for following up on her son.’

‘But why would she have told Jane Hillen the child had died?’

‘Maybe she was ashamed,’ McCready said. ‘Maybe she felt she couldn’t keep it with a disability and was shamed by the fact that Hillen had.’

It seemed a plausible reason.

Hughes’s house was set back from the road on the way out of Ballybofey. To the rear of the property a large garden stretched down towards a low fence, above which could be viewed the
expanse of the Blue Stack Mountains.

Margot Hughes sat nervously in a wide armchair in her living room while I introduced myself. Her husband had been out working on a car in the garage when we had arrived, his boiler suit pulled
down off his trunk and tied around his waist, despite the cold, his T-shirt smeared with engine oil.

He had demanded to know why we wanted to speak to his wife and had followed us into the living room when she finally answered the door. He perched on the arm of the sofa, glaring from her to
us.

‘So what’s going on?’

‘We need to speak with your wife about St Canice’s,’ I said.

‘Where?’ His accent was Northern, Newry perhaps. He was clearly not a local, which explained why he didn’t recognize the name.

‘It was a hospital,’ Margot Hughes replied timidly. ‘A children’s hospital when I was an infant. I was never in it, though,’ she added quickly, looking at me
momentarily.

McCready sat forward in his seat. ‘We were told you had been—’

‘A friend of a patient there,’ I added quickly.

Mr Hughes stared at me with open suspicion.

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news about her. We wanted to ask you a few questions.’

McCready finally realized what was happening.

‘Is that a DS out there?’ he asked the husband. ‘What year?’

‘Sixty-five,’ Hughes replied. ‘Why?’

‘I used to drive a 2CV,’ McCready said. ‘I always wanted a DS.’

‘Don’t,’ the man replied, a little less gruffly. ‘They drink petrol.’

‘It would be worth it for the drive, though,’ McCready said, smiling. ‘Can I see it?’

Hughes glanced from his wife to me one last time, seemingly satisfied that the reason for our visit was as innocuous as we had claimed.

‘I’m rebuilding it,’ Hughes said. ‘I got the body in a scrap yard and I’ve been buying up the parts off eBay. It’s a bit of a labour of love.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ McCready said, standing as Hughes stood.

‘Thank you,’ Margot Hughes said quietly after her husband had shut the front door.

‘He doesn’t know about the baby?’

She shook her head, her eyes already filling. ‘I met him when I was in my late-twenties. I’d been in St Canice’s over a decade before that. There was never a reason to tell
him.’

‘He doesn’t strike me as the type who would take such news well,’ I remarked.

‘He’s a good man,’ Margot Hughes replied quickly. ‘He just likes to know what’s going on. Who gave you my name?’

‘I can’t say, Mrs Hughes. I’m sorry to bring this all back up for you. We’ve been digging on Islandview and have uncovered the remains of infants. We believe they were
buried there as part of a
cillin
.’

She nodded.

‘We were told that—’

Her tears began freely now. ‘My son is there, if that’s what you want to ask.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hughes,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

She shook away the offer of a handkerchief and instead wiped at her tears with the sleeve of her jumper.

‘They told me they would bury him for me. They said he couldn’t be buried in a church. They told me there was a
cillin
in Lifford. I never knew where it was
exactly.’

‘Your son was one of a number we recovered with some physical injuries to the face.’

She nodded. ‘He was born disabled. He never breathed, not once. I remember waiting to hear him cry after they ripped him out of me; I was so young it almost broke my pelvis. They worked
with him as best they could, but I could tell it wasn’t right from their reactions when they saw him. He never cried. They didn’t even let me hold him. I asked to see him and they held
him out to me. His face looked like it had collapsed. His eyes were closed, his little mouth pursed. They let me kiss him once. Even through the blood I could see his hair was the most beautiful
gold. “He’s still warm,” I said. I thought maybe he was still alive, but the doctor said it was because he’d been inside me. I knew, though, from his colour. He was
grey.’

She did not shudder or sob as she spoke, though the tears coursed freely down her cheeks.

‘But he was dead, is that right?’

She nodded. ‘Why?’

‘Someone claimed a PPS number for your son when he was a year old,’ I said. ‘That wasn’t you?’

She shook her head, horrified. ‘Of course not. Is my son alive?’ she asked, her face alight with both hope and terror.

‘I don’t know, Mrs Hughes,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

As I watched the conflicting emotions play in her expression, I felt that, in implying that her son may still be alive, I had caused her much greater hurt than I had in reminding her of his
death.

‘I want to know if my son is alive,’ she said.

‘Honestly, I—’

‘I understand you can’t tell me his name,’ she said, leaning towards me suddenly, her hands reaching for mine. ‘But if you know where he is, can you give him the choice
to find out about me. Only . . .’

Her eyes shifted towards the door whence we could hear the voices of her husband and McCready approaching.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

The door opened and Hughes came in. When he saw the tears on his wife’s face he immediately straightened.

‘What the hell’s this all about?’

‘We recovered the body of a friend of your wife’s,’ I said, standing myself now. ‘We wanted to inform her.’

He held my stare, his back erect. ‘Are you all right, love?’ he asked finally.

‘I’m sorry if I upset you, Mrs Hughes,’ I said. ‘If I do have any further news, I’ll be in touch.’

‘He’s a piece of work,’ McCready said as we left. ‘Though he knows his way around a car. Handy with his hands.’

‘He strikes me as the type who might be a bit too handy with his fists at times, too,’ I said. ‘As for her, either she’s an incredibly convincing liar, or she knows
nothing about her child still being alive.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘Maybe the home lied about the child dying to make it easier for her, you know. Taking the baby from her and that.’

‘It seems a bit callous, telling her the child was dead.’

‘Let’s head for Donegal town.’

‘Why?’

‘If Max McGrath looks anything like Christopher Hillen, we’ll know for sure.’

‘Do we have to?’ McCready said.

‘St Canice’s is at the centre of all of this. Declan Cleary was buried with those seven youngsters. Whoever carried out the recent killings must be connected with it in some way. I
think the attack on the Commission’s diggers was to stop them finding these children. We need to find out what happened to them.’

He didn’t speak as we drove through Barnes Gap on the way to Donegal, though I could tell he had something on his mind. His skin had paled and he chewed at a rag-nail
while he drove.

‘It’s not going to happen,’ I said.

‘What?’ he glanced across at me, distracted from his own thoughts.

‘Your child won’t have Goldenhar syndrome.’