The Silent Dead (Paula Maguire 3) by Claire McGowan Read Free Book Online

up to the day of the birth.’
    ‘Oh right. I must have missed something, then. Do you actually have a wife?’
    ‘No, but— . . .’
    ‘She’s unlikely to be working, then, is she? Since, you know, she doesn’t actually exist.’ Gerard sulked, rattling the last bits out of his crisp bag. It was pure revenge that made Paula say the next thing. ‘I see Avril’s set a date for the wedding.’ She watched him for a reaction, but none came. Nothing had happened since that odd moment at Christmas – Avril was getting married, Gerard flirted with every female in sight, and Fiacra, who’d taken Avril’s engagement hard, had morphed from a cheerful young country boy to a moody, ambitious thorn in all their sides. Although he had other reasons to have changed, admittedly. ‘I wonder if we’ll be invited,’ she said.
    ‘Dunno. You’ll hardly be able to go anyway, with the wean.’
    ‘Hmm.’ She relented – she was hardly the person to poke her nose into other people’s affairs. Although officially no one knew Guy might be the father of Paula’s baby, she was sure everyone had noticed the spark when they’d first met, and if they could count at all, it wasn’t a huge leap to make. She shut up, and they drove the rest of the way in silence. Soon they were passing walls covered in murals – Hunger Strikers, Peelers Out, Bloody Sunday memorials. Centuries of bitterness slapped up there in lurid colours. They parked in a rundown estate where the kerbs were painted green, white and gold. Immediately a crowd of kids gathered. ‘Here, mister, that’s a nice car.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Gerard locked it. ‘Who’s gonna keep an eye on it for me?’
    ‘Me, me!’
    He picked out the tallest lad, freckled in a Celtic jersey. ‘I’ll give you two quid if it’s all in one piece when I get back. Come on, Maguire.’
    ‘I see none of them were prospering, anyway,’ said Gerard. ‘Bit of a dump, this.’
    Catherine Ni Chonnaill lived with her three children in a sad, pebble-dashed end of terrace. The overgrown grass in the front yard was mined with bin bags and broken toys, and when they rang the bell the paint on the door was flaking.
    It was opened a short while after by a sixtyish woman, shouting at a pit bull terrier to be quiet as it worried around her heels, pressing its wet nose into Paula’s leg.
    ‘What do yis want?’ The eyes travelled to Paula’s bump.
    ‘We’re with the MPRU,’ said Gerard. ‘The Missing Persons Response Unit. Could we come in, please, ma’am?’
    The ‘ma’am’ usually did the trick. She stood aside to let them into the dingy living room. It smelled of fags and the brown carpet was marked by cigarette burns. Two children, a boy and a girl, sat watching cartoons on a big TV. They didn’t look up as Paula and Gerard came in. There was nowhere else to sit – the kids were on the crumby sofa, and propped on the brown velvet armchair was a baby, sniffling, his face encrusted with baked beans. The woman, who was presumably his grandmother, wiped his face with a tea towel and asked again what it was they were wanting.
    ‘We need a word with you about your daughter,’ said Gerard. ‘It’d be better if the wee ones didn’t hear, though, if you see.’
    ‘Tara, Owen, go outside.’
    ‘Wa-ah!’ The boy, who had two pierced ears and a Man United shirt, grumbled.
    The grandma swatted him with her towel. ‘Get out of my sight, you wee skitter.’
    It was windy outside, and a light drizzle pattered down, but the children went, both in bare arms. Seven and five, Paula knew they were. ‘Well?’ said the grandmother. ‘I’m feeding the wee one so I can hardly put him out.’
    ‘What’s his name?’ asked Paula.
    ‘Peadar.’ The third child, the one who wasn’t Ronan Lynch’s. He stopped grizzling when a plastic spoon with more beans was shoved in his mouth, but Paula couldn’t tear her eyes from him, the food mess, the snot round his pudgy nose, and the smell of dirty nappy