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

wafting from his little blue jeans.
    ‘Mrs Ni Chonnaill,’ she said. ‘I’m a forensic psychologist, so my role in the unit is to produce reports on the missing to see if there’s anything that might have made them go.’
    ‘It’s Mrs Connell. I don’t hold with that Irish rubbish. And you’d be better served looking after your husband, love, ’stead of parading about with all and sundry looking at your belly.’
    Paula blinked. ‘Er – well – never mind me. I need to ask you about Catherine. Obviously we’re very worried about her, since Mickey Doyle’s death. Where do you think she is?’
    It was a question so obvious it rarely got asked, but Paula found it could be surprisingly useful. Know the person and you’d often know where they were. ‘Who knows with Catherine? She’s most likely annoyed the Ra again and gone off.’
    ‘You’re saying she sometimes left the country to escape the IRA?’
    ‘Aye, two or three times. Around the Belfast Agreement. They don’t like all that Ireland First business, the Ra.’
    ‘Your husband died in 2004, I believe?’ Gerard was making notes again.
    ‘Not soon enough, ould bastard that he was.’
    The child put up his dirty hands for the spoon. Paula averted her eyes. ‘And these other times, did Catherine tell you she was going?’
    ‘Oh aye. She’d ring from phone boxes and that. I told her to stay away, make a life in England, but her da wanted her back.’
    ‘But she hasn’t phoned this time?’
    ‘Not a word since the text. She said she was late at work and would I lift them from school. What did your last maid die of, I texted back, and could she not have rung me at least? But she never answered.’
    ‘I see. And she hadn’t been to work that day, it turned out?’
    ‘So they said. Never turned up.’ Catherine had last been seen getting into her car after dropping Peadar at daycare. Somewhere between there and her office on the outskirts of Ballyterrin, she’d vanished.
    ‘Mrs Connell,’ Paula hesitated. ‘Is it fair to say you’re not overly worried about your daughter? You don’t think she’s been abducted, you think she’s safe somewhere?’
    ‘Missus, I’ve been expecting her dead since she was ten years old, but she scrapes through. She’ll be grand, you’ll see. I’m more worried about being landed with these weans.’
    ‘The oldest two, they’re Ronan Lynch’s children? He has also been reported missing, as you know. Could they have left together?’
    ‘In his dreams. She wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire these days, useless galoot that he is.’
    ‘I’m sorry, but are you able to tell us who the father of – Peadar – is?’ Paula lowered her voice, as if the child could understand. He looked on with watery blue eyes, uncomprehending.
    ‘You’d have to ask Catherine.’ The grandmother was suddenly tetchy. ‘I’ve no more idea than you do. Is that all now? I’m a busy woman.’
    ‘All right. Thank you.’
    Behind her, the baby had seen something on the muted TV and was pointing at it. His granny poked the spoon at his mouth. ‘Quiet now, what’s wrong with you?’
    He was crying now, pushing the food away, reaching out for the screen, his sobs turning to wails. Paula followed his gaze. On the TV behind them, the news, and on it the pretty, sulky face of Peadar’s mother. Catherine Ni Chonnaill was forty years old and looked thirty, a beautiful, fair-haired woman with a strong, ruthless gaze.
    ‘Shut your face, Peadar,’ said his granny, poking the spoon at him once more.
    ‘He wants his mother,’ said Paula quietly. And who had taken her away from him?
    Extract from The Blood Price: The Mayday
Bombing and its Aftermath , by Maeve Cooley
(Tairise Press, 2011)
     
    Interview with John Lenehan
I sent my son into town that morning. He wouldn’t have gone otherwise, you see. He was like all young lads – he’d lie in his bed till teatime if you let him. He’d this holiday booked in Majorca and I said